


This is Not Déjà-vu

by Endymien



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Friends to Lovers, High School, M/M, Raven Cycle x Life is Strange crossover, Time Travel, multi-chapter, pynch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 71,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endymien/pseuds/Endymien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam couldn't help but feel that the fact he may have rewound time was less important than the fact he had just saved a boy's life.</p><p>A Pynch Life is Strange AU!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw fanart for a LiS AU for a different fandom and got inspired :) 
> 
> Major spoilers for Life is Strange.
> 
> Enjoy!

  
_Get to the lighthouse._ Rain came at him sideways, pelting his face and sliding down the collar of his sweater to form a freezing river down his spine. How had he gotten here? Trees swayed around him on all sides, the Arcadia Bay lighthouse rose above their wind tossed branches.  _Get to the lighthouse._  What was he doing? He wracked his brain, but the only clear thought he could find was the compulsion to reach the lighthouse. 

 

He raised his hands against the wind and staggered up the slope toward the lighthouse. The wind was screeching now, whipping the rain harder into has hands, and when he reached the lighthouse he saw why: a cyclone was devouring the bay, sucking water into the air and reducing sailboats to splintered boards. Adam couldn't move, couldn't do anything, as the vortex crept in the direction of Arcadia Bay.

 

* * *

  


Adam's chin hit his chest and he jerked awake. 

 

He was in the Latin classroom. Afternoon light was pouring through the bank of windows to his right and flooding the desks with sleepy warmth. Professor Whelk was scribbling 3rd declension nouns on the board with a badly squeaking marker. His students were watching with various levels of disinterest. Everything was placid and unperturbed. 

 

Adam shivered at the memory of icy water down his back. His hand shook as he raised it.

 

"Mr. Parrish?" Whelk sneered when he turned around. During his first week at Blackwell Academy, Adam had thought the Latin teach disliked him in particular. Perhaps he could detect the grease under his fingernails, the careful cuffs Adam had sown into his second hand uniform pants. But a month at Blackwell and he already knew better. Whelk hated all his students. Adam didn't know why and didn't particularly care; Whelk's unhappiness was his own problem.

 

"Can I step out for a moment? I'm not feeling well." Adam managed through a dry mouth.

 

Whelk snorted and made a flippant hand gesture. That was a yes then. Adam collected his bag and ducked his head against the unwanted stares of his classmates as he hurried from the classroom.  

 

The halls were empty, but Adam kept his head down as he passed by rows of neat lockers and sparkling trophy cases. With his eyes unfocused, Blackwell was a blur of polished mahogany and maroon wallpaper, interrupted by bulletin boards bursting with bright colors and bad Photoshop. Blackwell had a type of masculine elegance that was necessarily marred by the presence of teenage boys.

 

Adam's sneakers squeaked as he bee-lined for the bathroom. He knocked the door open with his shoulder, rumpling half a dozen fliers. He knew what they said without looking: MISSING: NOAH CZERNY. Adam had never met Noah—Blackwell had already been plastered with his face the day Adam arrived—but he still felt the bottom fall out of his stomach every time he locked eyes with the pale haired boy smiling at him from every bathroom door and lamp post. The rest of Arcadia Bay's population seemed less moved by Noah's continued absence. Apparently "The Czerny Boy" had run with an eccentric crowd. He'd probably jetted off to Slab City or Argentina without bothering to tell his folks. 

 

Adam braced himself on one of the sinks in the bathroom and heaved in a deep breath. What had that vision in Whelk's classroom been? It seemed too vivid, too sensory to be a dream. But then again, he had taken a late shift at Bernie's Auto Shop last night and had stayed up even later working on a history paper. Maybe the sleep deprivation was finally getting to him. Even as he reasoned that that had to be it, he felt icy water trickling down his spine.

 

He ran warm water from the tap and splashed it on his face. Was he trying to wake himself up or calm himself down? He reached blindly for a paper towel. When he failed to find one he opened his eyes and was distracted by a flash of blue in the corner of the mirror. Water dripping off his chin, he turned to see a butterfly with impossibly blue wings flutter around the corner of the last stall. Adam grabbed a paper towel and hastily blotted it against his face before fumbling in his bag for his camera. He could question what such a clearly exotic insect was doing in a bathroom at Blackwell later, his mind was already crowded with a dozen different hypothetical shots: the juxtaposition of the butterfly's delicate wings against the cold institutional tile, the butterfly the only point of color in the drab gray of the bathroom...

 

The butterfly led him into a small unused space roughly the side of a bathroom stall that was empty aside from a forgotten cleaning cart and a metal bucket. The butterfly alighted on the bucket and Adam's brain was already calculating angles and lighting. "How did you find your way in here?" he whispered as he peered through the viewfinder. He waited until the butterfly slowly flapped its wings open and snapped a picture. The new photo ejected itself from the front of the camera. Adam pulled it off and shook it gently.

 

With the photo and his camera safely stowed in his bag, tingling unease started to take over the parts of Adam's mind that had been distracted by the rush of getting a perfect shot. The appearance of the butterfly was giving him the same eerie feeling that the dream in Whelk's class had. There was something odd about it that he couldn't put his finger on.

 

The bathroom door swung open. Startled, the butterfly took off and disappeared around the corner. Adam straightened up and was about to step around the corner into the main section of the bathroom when a rough, stilted laugh made him pause.

 

"Take it easy, K. Take it easy. Time to treat yourself."

 

Adam peered around the corner to see a boy hunched in front of one of the sinks. His dark hair hung in front of his face and a pair of gold necklaces draped loosely around his neck as he fumbled for something in his pocket. As Adam watched, the boy procured a small bag of something white and poured some onto the back of his hand with shaking fingers. He lowered his head over his hand, and when he straightened up the white powder was gone. 

 

"Fuck. Fuuuuuck." He groaned, stuffing the baggy back into his pocket. He rolled his shoulders back and shook his head, his lank hair becoming even more chaotic.

 

Adam sunk further into the shadows. He recognized this kid, Joseph... something. He had a reputation for being wild, cracked out, and violent. Rumor had it that his family paid off the Arcadia Bay police chief, so he had never been arrested for a drug violation or street racing despite being caught multiple times. Adam didn't want to think what Joseph might do to him if he caught him spying, but before Adam could retreat further the bathroom door opened again. 

 

"Kavinsky! You fuckhead." A tall boy not so much walked as exploded into the room. He was lean and fair with a shaved head and muscular arms. A tendril of a tattoo curled over the collar of the muscle tee that he was wearing in place of the requisite, maroon Blackwell sweater. Kavinsky, with his gold chains and pockets full of stimulants, might be dangerous, but this boy looked lethal. Adam caught a glimpse of his face—high cheek bones, mouth twisted in contempt—before he pinned Joseph Kavinsky to the wall. There was something familiar about it—but Adam didn't get a chance to look again because the tall boy's back was to Adam, Kavinsky's unfocused eyes just visible over his shoulder.

 

"Hey, fagot," Kavinsky spat into the boy's face. The boy didn't flinch. "I knew you'd jump me one day, didn't realize public restrooms were your scene."

 

"What the fuck did you give him?"

 

"What?"

 

"Don't act like an idiot, K. It was your party. What the hell did you dose my little brother with?" 

 

"Matthew?" Kavinsky let his head loll back against the tile of the bathroom wall, his lips curling into a sneer, "I didn't give him shit."

 

"Bullshit," the boy's fist hit the wall next to Kavinsky's head.

 

That set Kavinsky off. In a flash he was full of manic energy, pushing against the tall boy's grip on his arms, head jerking forward and nearly nailing him in the face. "You calling me a liar? You calling me a fucking liar?" he seethed.

 

"Jesus, are you high right now?"

 

Kavinsky responded with a flurry of movement. The tall boy stepped backward, just enough for Adam to see something shiny and gun shaped in Kavinsky's hand. 

 

The boy laughed as if Kavinsky had pulled a Nerf gun on him not what looked to be a very real, very dangerous handgun. "Oh dear, Johnny brought a gun to school," he mocked in a fake falsetto before returning to his normal octave. "Jesus, K, why do you have that? You gonna blow away one of your teachers if they give you pop quiz or something? Shit man."

 

Kavinsky's hand wrapped in the loose collar of the boy's shirt, jerking him closer. "Call me a liar one more time. Fucking do it and I'll fucking shoot you." He was spitting with rage. His pupils blown out and unfocused, his face turning an angry red. Adam's heart pounded in his throat. He had no doubt that Kavinsky could and would shoot this boy in cold blood. He was frozen in his hiding place, mind scrambling for something—anything—to stop him, but his joints felt welded in place. 

 

The boy just scoffed. "You aren't gonna shoot me, K. You'd miss my pretty face to much. Now put that away before you hurt yourself." The boy's hands curled around Kavinsky's shoulders and forced him backwards. 

 

The gun went off. 

 

Red blossomed across the back of the boy's white shirt. His knees buckled and gave and he fell sideways as if in slow motion. Adam looked on in horror. Without thinking he lunged toward the falling boy, thrusting his hand forward as if he could stop him, a cry tearing from his throat, "No!"

 

All at once the boy stopped falling. Then he started moving upwards at an unnatural angle. Adam stood frozen as the boys in front of him moved as if in rewind. The edges of his vision began to burn, red spots eating away at the corners. There was a rushing in both his ears. One boy was shuffling backwards out of the bathroom then the other. Adam forced his hand downward, and, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. His vision cleared, and he was alone in the bathroom. 

 

He blinked, feeling dizzy and nauseous. This was more than sleep deprivation, he was going legitimately insane. How pathetic that he had only lasted a month at Blackwell before he snapped. He had always assumed that he would see a mental breakdown coming from a mile away. But this—he'd been handling everything so well: the relocation, the increased work load, the two jobs. Sure he'd cried a few times, but overall it was a relief to be out from under his father's control, to no longer be scared, bracing for a blow every time he returned home. His father—maybe this was what he had left Adam to remember him by. Maybe when he'd thrown Adam against the railing of the trailer that night he'd damaged more than his hearing, he'd knocked something loose. Something that was just starting to rear its head. 

 

None of Adam's explanations could erase the image of blood blooming across the boy's shirt. Or the way the bloodstain had grown smaller, seeping back into his body. He stared down at his hand, his back pressed to the cool metal of the bathroom stall. Around the corner, the bathroom door opened and the butterfly Adam hadn't notice fluttered past his nose.

 

"Take it easy, K. Take it easy. Time to treat yourself."

 

Adam stiffened, then very slowly he peered around the side of the last stall. There was Joseph Kavinsky standing in front of the sink, pulling a bag of cocaine from his pocket exactly as he had before. It was as if Adam had gone back in time. 

 

Adam stared in open-mouthed shock, nearly forgetting that he didn't want to be seen. He pulled himself back into the recesses of the alcove. Around the corner the scene was replaying, but why? _how?_ He felt the urge to curl up on the floor, clamp his hands over his ears, and pretend that none of this was happening, but then the bathroom door swung open again and Adam's heart lurched. The boy that had just barged into the room was going to die in a little under two minutes if he didn't find some way to save him. 

 

"Don't act like an idiot, K. It was your party. What the hell did you dose my little brother with?"

 

Adam cast around him for something he could do. There was a fire alarm on the wall behind a sheet of glass. 

 

"You calling me a liar? You calling me a fucking liar?"

 

He needed something to break the glass. Anything.

 

There was a hammer laying half covered by the cleaning supply cart.

 

 "Oh dear, Johnny brought a gun to school."

 

Oh god, Kavinsky had already pulled the gun. Adam slammed the hammer into the glass panel and reached in to pull the alarm before the glass had even finished falling. An siren blared through the room. 

 

Kavinsky and the boy staggered apart. 

 

"Stay the hell away from me you fucking cocksucker," Kavinsky hissed. The tall boy just shook his head, looking disgusted, and pushed his way out of the bathroom. Kavinsky flicked on the gun's safety and stuffed it into the waistband of his pants before following suit.

 

In, out, in, out. Adam struggled to control his breathing. The boy—the handsomely dangerous one with a voice that reminded Adam of something—had been bleeding out on the bathroom floor. He had been dead, if not yet then presently. But Adam had—what? Changed his fate? Gone back in time and saved him? The boy was dead and then he was not and it was because of Adam. He looked down at his trembling hands. Were they the hands of a lunatic? Or were they the hands of someone who could reverse the flow of time? Logically, the first was more likely, but Adam felt in his gut that the second was true. Adam Parrish had rewound time. 

 

Adam huddled in his hiding place until he was certain Kavinsky wouldn't catch him coming out of the bathroom. The alarm was making his head pound—or maybe that was the impossibility of what had just happened. Either way, as he rubbed his temples and shouldered his way out of the humanities building to join the displaced students milling around the parking lot, Adam couldn't help but feel that the fact he may have rewound time was less important than the fact he had just saved a boy's life. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the students were finally given the go-ahead to return to class, Adam was so lost in his own thoughts that he ran head first into a pinstriped blazer. He blinked at the fashionably knotted tie an inch in front of his nose before following it upward to the face of Colin Greenmantle. 

 

"Professor Greenmantle," Adam staggered backward trying to look apologetic and composed, neither of which he seemed to be achieving. "I'm so sorry I—I think I was sleeping on my feet." 

 

Greenmantle raised a delicately manicured eyebrow at him. He was an import, just like Adam. Except that while Adam had begged Blackwell to let him attend, Blackwell had begged Colin Greenmantle to come to it. He was a renowned photographer in his own right, with dozens of magazine spreads and a decade's worth of gallery openings on his resume. As one of the chosen few who had turned photography into wealth, he really didn't need to teach, but as Blackwell's September newsletter had stated, his "Philanthropic desire to pass his passion onto a younger generation" had led him to teach in a half dozen schools across the country. Adam wasn't fooled; Colin Greenmantle didn't have a philanthropic bone in his body. He did however have a desire to bask in the adoration of a handcrafted group of disciples. Adam didn't particularly like him, but he respected his work and had already learned a lot of valuable techniques in the short month since he started at Blackwell. 

 

"Are you alright, Mr. Parrish?" 

 

"I'm—" the glint of florescent lights off the cold metal of Kavinsky's gun flashed in his mind, "I'm fine. Thanks." 

 

Greenmantle looked unconvinced, but he also looked like he didn't particularly care whether Adam was alright, so he simply lowered his eyebrow and walked away.

 

Regret welled in Adam's gut. He should have told Greenmantle. Something could have been done to prevent Kavinsky from hurting someone else. But with regret came the flicker of an idea. He shifted his messenger bag to his left shoulder and looked thoughtfully at his right hand. Maybe he was going insane. Maybe he was about to look like an idiot standing still with his hand outstretched in a hall full of people. Chewing his lip, he held up his hand and willed time to go backwards—

 

Time obeyed. 

 

Adam dropped his hand and he was staring into the expensive silk of Colin Greenmantle's tie. He staggered back again, this time dizzy from the rush of time moving illogically around him and blinked up at Greenmantle's quizzical expression. 

 

"Are you alright, Mr. Parrish?"

 

"No, actually—I need to report something." 

 

* * *

 

 

Principal Wells assured Adam that the incident would be thoroughly investigated, and that, if any convincing evidence could be procured, Kavinsky would be punished to the fullest extent of the law. It wasn't the most comforting statement, but Adam felt better knowing that at least campus security would be alerted. 

 

By the end of the school day Adam was feeling considerably less shaken. He'd even toyed the the time-thing again, reversing time to give better answers in class. He felt a little guilty, but the late shift at Bernie's had cut into his reading time and he hadn't finished the final chapters of  _Robinson Crusoe_. The extra help was a relief. 

 

By the time he was crossing the parking lot to get his bike and run some errands before work, Adam was feeling nearly back to normal. That was to say tired. He didn't notice Kavinsky until he was halfway across the lot. 

 

"Adam Parrish, is it?" Kavinsky jeered, stepping into Adam's path. "You think I wouldn't find out, huh, you little snitch?" Before Adam could back away, Kavinsky's hands were on his shoulders, shoving him sideways. Adam crashed into the back of a parked Range Rover, his hip slamming into unforgiving metal, his messenger bag swinging into the fender with a worrying crack. "I have my ways, I have my fucking ways Adam Parrish." Kavinsky was an inch from his face, tendons in his neck bulging as he yelled at him. Adam could feel his muscles locking, his body shrinking, then a familiar sense of detached calm as he accepted that Kavinsky was going to hit him and that it was going to hurt. "You spying on my in the bathroom, huh? Take a picture while you're at it? Why didn't you take a picture of my dick while you were at it, huh? You fucking homo." A car squealed to a stop behind Kavinsky. Great, they were going to have an audience.  

 

Adam felt the punch coming before Kavinsky even raised his fist. He closed his eyes and tried to sink deeper into his skin.  _Don't run, it will only make him angrier_. He heard the faint but familiar sound of a fist flying toward him, and gave into the urge to raise his hands to protect his face.

 

The blow didn't land. 

 

"Get away from him you son of a bitch."

 

 There was the sound of knuckles crunching against something hard. Adam's eyes flew open. He blinked wildly, trying to figure out who Kavinsky had hit if not him, but his vision was half blocked by white cotton. Adam had seen the back of this shirt before—this time it wasn't soaked with blood. 

 

Kavinsky limped into Adam's range of sight on the other side of the boy standing in front of him, wiping his split lip on his hand and leaving a smudge of red across his chin, "What's this, Lynch? Found yourself a new boyfriend to replace your beloved Dick?"

 

Adam's head snapped around. Something that had been itching at the back of his mind finally slotted into place. Lynch?  _Ronan_  Lynch? He stared at the stretch of neck above the torn collar of the t-shirt as if he could recognize it as belonging to his childhood friend. When had Ronan gotten so tall? And so angry? And when had he cut off all his hair? 

 

"Get in the car, Adam." Ronan lifted his fists again, every muscle coiled and ready to strike as, without looking away from Kavinsky he jerked his head toward the charcoal BMW still running next to them, its driver side door hanging open. 

 

Fear thrilled through Adam. Did Kavinsky still have his gun? He wouldn't be here now if campus security had found it. "Ronan, don't!"

 

But Ronan was already swinging, landing a punch to Kavinsky's gut and another to his face. "Go!" he shouted, turning and sprinting to the driver's side of the BMW. This time Adam obeyed before Kavinsky could do anything in retaliation.

 

Inside the BMW, Adam dropped his head against the headrest as Ronan peeled out of the parking lot. Today had been a day.

 

"Thanks," Adam said, competing with the techno trash that was blaring from the BMW's speakers.

 

"Don't mention it," Ronan grunted, mercifully turning down the mind numbing music. "I'm glad I was there to stop him—otherwise who knows when you'd have finally gotten around to talking to me." 

 

"Ronan, it's not like that."

 

"Sure it's not." Ronan banked hard into a turn, his driving expressing his anger louder than his words. "You could have at least told me you were coming back to Arcadia Bay. How long have you been here? A month? Two?" There was venom in his tone that Adam didn't recognize, but it fit with this sharper edged version of his friend. 

 

"Just one." Guilt seeped into Adam's voice. Every day since he had arrived in Arcadia Bay he'd thought about knocking on Ronan's door. Sometimes he'd lay on his back until 1:00am, unable to sleep despite the exhaustion in his limbs, and remember building blanket forts in Ronan's living room or rolling down the hill in the Lynch's backyard. But every time he got as far as unlocking his bike fear crept up on him. Ronan wouldn't want to see him. Ronan, who had always been so determined, so sure of himself, would only look at Adam with pity when he realized Adam's return to Arcadia Bay wasn't a victory lap, just a shameful escape out of a back door that had been left unlocked. 

 

"I thought I'd see you at Blackwell," Adam said, swallowing through the shame. 

 

Ronan sneered, "That hell hole?"

 

Adam didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't think of a reason Ronan wouldn't be at Blackwell. It occurred to him that this Ronan had too many parts Adam didn't know. 

 

Ronan drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, speeding up through a yellow light. He looked sideways at Adam. "If you're here does that mean..."

 

Ronan clearly didn't want to finish that sentence; Adam answered his question so he didn't have to. "Prison. Two years." 

 

"You finally turn him in?" 

 

Adam swallowed. He fixed his eyes on the cracked asphalt in front of them and the twisted evergreens beyond, bracing himself for Ronan's disappointment. "No. He got into a bar fight. Got pissed at some guy he'd lost a bet to. Beat him unconscious with a beer bottle." 

 

Ronan kept his eyes forward, but his brow furrowed and his lips turned down. Adam searched for condemnation in the set of his jaw, in the shadowed skin around his eyes and came up empty. Something in his chest untangled.

 

They drove through the twisted suburban streets on the edge of Arcadia Bay in silence. Adam recognized the route. He watched the familiar weathered houses pass by his window and wondered how long he would have to be gone to forget the way to Ronan's house. 

 

"You've changed, Parrish," Ronan's voice was hardly more than a whisper. 

 

"Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?"

 

When Ronan didn't respond Adam turned to look at him. Ronan was watching him, his eyes flitting across Adam's face then down his side to where his hands rested palm up on top of his knees. Something in the gaze made heat creep up Adam's neck. He looked down at his hands too, searching for something to say. "You cut your hair." 

 

"Yeah, I did."

 

They pulled into the driveway and Ronan stopped the car. The house was the same as Adam remembered: weathered wood, windows spilling warm light onto uneven but verdantly green grass, a weather vane on the roof tilted just a little to the right.

 

"Look, I have to be at work at 6:00."

 

"I'll drive you, but come in first?" The challenge in Ronan's eyes and the question in the uncertain set of his lips made it impossible for Adam to say no.

 

* * *

 

 

The Lynch home was not the same on the inside as Adam remembered it. Well, it was physically: overstuffed leather sofas, shelves piled with books, family heirlooms stacked in every corner. But there was something darker about it now as if, even with every lamp on, it was missing its primary light source. It had been four years since Niall Lynch's death, but Adam could feel the way the loss still hung in the corners and draped across every cluttered surface.

 

Ronan's room was different too, the shelves of action figures and stuffed toys had been replaced with posters of bands Adam had never heard of and pictures of cars torn out of magazines. 

 

"Make yourself at home," Ronan gestured toward the unmade bed as he toed off his shoes and kicked them into opposite corners of the room. He rummaged in one of the drawers on a desk nearly buried in discarded clothes, then flopped onto the bed with a pipe and an orange pill bottle. "Care to join?"

 

Adam sat tentatively on the edge of the bed, leaning over to untie his shoes and set them next to each other. "No thanks." 

 

"Still a straight edge, Parrish?" Ronan asked, a smile spreading across his face that was both inviting and dangerous.

 

Adam just shrugged and fished his camera out of his messenger bag. A swear fell from his lips when he noticed the crack going through the casing. It must have cracked when Kavinsky pushed him against that car. He'd gotten the camera on Craigslist for a tenth of its value, but it had still felt so indulgent to buy something for himself. Frustration—at himself for being foolish enough to think he could keep nice things, at Kavinsky for pushing him, at himself for letting Kavinsky push him—bubbled up inside of him. 

 

"Can you fix that?" Adam jumped, nearly dropping the broken camera. Ronan had crawled up on Adam's deaf side without him noticing. 

 

"Probably not." Adam tried to distance himself from the anger and disappointment steaming in his chest, but it leaked out between his words, "Even if I glue it, it will let too much light in, the photos will be overexposed." 

 

"Sucks, man."

 

"Guess I should expect as much, going to Blackwell. Things are as easy to replaces as they are to break aren't they?" He was getting bitter again. 

 

"Maybe you should stop picking fights with bastards like Kavinsky."

 

"I don't pick fights."

 

"Oh yeah, and what was that I saved you from, a make out session?"

 

"He was mad at me, I didn't start it." 

 

"Mad about what?"

 

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

 

Ronan just snorted. This was awkward, fumbling. Adam wanted to be friends with Ronan again and he thought Ronan wanted the same—the way he leaned into Adam's space then self consciously pulled away, the way his gaze always seemed to linger a moment too long. The problem was they kept taking turns saying something wrong, squandering every chance to they had to get things back to how they were before Adam left Arcadia Bay. Adam just wanted it to be easy again. It was always easy with Ronan. 

 

Feeling like he needed to give his hands something to do, Adam pulled out the stack of photos he'd taken earlier to see how they'd turned out. The photo on the top of the stack was of the startlingly blue butterfly. 

 

"Wait, I've seen that before." Ronan snatched the picture from his hand. "Where did you take this?" 

 

Adam could see Ronan's knees hitting the cold bathroom tile, blood seeping through the back of his shirt. Knowing now that it had been Ronan made his stomach drop. Part of him wanted Ronan to know what he saw, what he could do. He stared at the photo in Ronan's hand and admitted, "The first floor bathroom in the humanities building." 

 

He could feel as Ronan's gaze grew piercing, boring into the side of his face, "When?" 

 

"When do you think?" Adam breathed, "I was the one who pulled the alarm." 

 

"Are you fucking with me, Parrish?"

 

There was so much more Adam wanted to tell him, but when he opened his mouth his resolve wavered. He didn't want Ronan to think he was crazy. Not when he had just entered his life again. He leveled his gaze at Ronan wanting it to be plainly obvious how honest he was being. "I was in the back corner by the cleaning supplies when Joseph Kavinsky came in and took a bump of something off his hand. I saw him pull a gun on you. I pulled the alarm. I told Principal Wells that he had a gun and he must have found out somehow, that's why he was angry at me." 

 

Ronan's eyes were wide. The forgotten pipe spilled tufts of green onto the bed. Adam could see the gears in Ronan's head turning and held his breath. This Ronan was an unknown entity, Adam couldn't guess how he'd react.

 

"You saved my sorry ass," Ronan finally murmured. The sudden reverence in his voice was startling. Adam swallowed, trying to find words; he wasn't used to being on the receiving end of gratitude. 

 

What ended up coming out of his mouth was, "To be fair I didn't realize it was you."

 

Ronan burst in to laughter. "Adam Parrish, you fucking asshole," he wheezed in between laughs. "Jesus Christ, when did you get so cut throat?"

 

Adam felt a wry smile starting to curl his lips. 

 

Ronan was still grinning when he unfurled Adam's left hand from around the camera, setting the half-packed pipe in it. "Hold this." He crossed the room and rifled through the closet until he found what he was looking for. "Here." Ronan set his parcel on Adam's knees and took back his pipe. "Take it." 

 

It was a camera, an instant Polaroid like the one Adam had broken, but nicer: a more expensive model, less banged up. 

 

"No. Ronan, this is a _nice_  camera."

 

"I know." 

 

"I'm not taking it."

 

"Yeah, you are."

 

"I don't want your charity, Lynch." He'd never called Ronan by his last name before, it felt like an insult. 

 

"It was my dad's." Adam's jaw snapped back shut. "He would be fucking pissed if he knew that no one's used it since he died." 

 

Adam swallowed down the lump in his throat. If there was one thing he wouldn't argue with Ronan about it was Niall Lynch.

 

"Thanks, man." 

 

Ronan just hummed distractedly and flicked a Bic lighter over his bowl. "Don't get all touchy feely now, Parrish, I'm still pissed at you for going AWOL." 

 

Ronan didn't seem angry anymore though. They sat in companionable silence side by side on the end of the bed, Ronan releasing lazy billows of smoke from his lips and Adam examining Niall Lynch's camera. There was still film in the camera, so Adam flipped the camera on Ronan and snapped a picture. Ronan managed to raise his middle finger at the last minute.

 

Eventually, Ronan ashed his pipe into a discarded cereal bowl and dropped it onto the bed. The air was thick with the scent of weed and a little hazy. 

 

"I should probably be going." 

 

"Okay, help me open some windows."

 

As cluttered as Ronan's room was, it was impossible to deny that the Lynch home was beautifully and expensively made. Glass panes spanned the majority of two walls, their sills a bit worn, but the wood a beautiful oak. They each took a wall. Ronan explained that he couldn't leave without airing out the room, that Declan had threatened to take the BMW away if he caught him with weed again. When the windows were open and a liberal amount of Axe (which Ronan reassured him was used expressly for this purpose) was sprayed in the corners, Adam slipped the new camera in his messenger bag next to the broken one and they headed down stairs. 

 

They had reached the bottom of the staircase when the front door swung open. 

 

"—would help this blow over easier. A few weeks in a facility—they're really not that bad, Matthew, and there's people there you could talk to." Declan Lynch. Silhouetted against the Henrietta evening he looked as square and sharp as a military commander. He was much more a man and much less a boy than when Adam had last seen him. His was looking over his shoulder, his words clearly meant for someone behind him. "It would make it clear that you were serious—" 

 

"You know, Declan," Ronan drawled, jumping down the last three steps and landing hard enough to make the hallway floorboards groan under his feet, "You should really consider a career in city planning. Maybe then you could reroute that sewage pipe dumping out of your mouth."

 

Declan turned to face Ronan, already sighing in irritation. "I would appreciate if you could say out of this, Ronan. I'm trying to stop our brother from sharing your fate."

 

"Oh, how tragic that he be free of an institution that obviously doesn't give a shit about helping him in his time of need." 

 

The brothers were nearly toe to toe now. Adam wondered if they still fought the way they used to, throwing punches until someone had a split lip or a black eye or until Aurora caught them. Adam didn't have time to find out today, he needed to get to work.

 

"Are you smoking again, Ronan? Why do I smell marijuana?"

 

Adam saw the admission forming on Ronan's lips, about to be spit in Declan's face. Ronan wasn't a liar, but Adam didn't have time for his honesty. He stepped forward, "Sorry, that was me—some guys I was hanging out with after school were smoking. I must have brought the smell with me."

 

Declan turned his gaze on him, as blue as Ronan's but colder. "Who are you?"

 

"Adam?" Another pair of blue eyes were peering around Declan, these ones lighter and topped with a mess of blond curls. Matthew had turned into a bear of a boy, shorter than his brothers but broader. Adam was impressed he had hidden so completely behind Declan. 

 

"Adam _Parrish_?" Declan was eying him with surprise now, but then Matthew pushed past him.

 

Adam braced himself for Matthew to throw his arms around him, but the boy stopped short. "You came back." There was a quiet smile on his face, but there were bags under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. Adam had been thrown off by Ronan's tattoo and shaved head and surprised by Declan's height and sternness, but Matthew's transformation truly startled him. Matthew had always been a source of indefatigable sunshine; now he seemed deflated. 

 

"Y-you've gotten so tall," Adam heard himself stumbling over his words. 

 

Ronan was apparently uninterested in their reunion. He clapped a hand on Matthew's shoulder possessively. "Hey, you staying for the weekend?"

 

Matthew couldn't seem to make eye contact, "I'm going back to the dorms tonight, I have crew tomorrow morning." 

 

"But I thought—"

 

"We got the suspension lifted." Declan contributed crisply. 

 

Ronan didn't bother to acknowledge Declan, eyes still intent on Matthew, "Matthew you should really stay. It would—"

 

"Why are you all acting like this is a big deal? Guys, everything is fine." The cheer in Matthew's voice was painfully forced, but it left no room for argument. Matthew wanted to pretend like nothing was wrong, and if Matthew wanted something both Ronan and Declan would comply.

 

Maybe it was the familial animosity between Ronan and Declan or the devotion of the older Lynches to Matthew, but suddenly Adam felt like he was intruding. He swallowed past the thick feeling in his throat, he had never felt like an outsider with the Lynches before. He knocked his hand against Ronan's, just to remind Ronan he was there and that they were supposed to be leaving. Declan's eyes followed the movement and something about his mouth hardened. 

 

Ronan straightened, Adam's message got through. "Look, I have to take Adam to work. If you're not here when I get back I will hunt you down and drag you back here, you got that?"

 

Matthew looked almost a little bashful in the wake of his brother's earnestness. "Okay."

 

Ronan pulled Matthew in for a rough, one armed hug and mussed his curls. So the Ronan from Adam's childhood did still exist, if only for Matthew.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the car, Ronan kept the metal-on-metal "music" at a low enough level for Adam to be able to hear, but he seemed too wrapped up in his own thoughts to break the silence. He bounced his knee at stop lights and punched the gas too hard every time the light turned green. Adam could practically see the anger boiling under his skin. 

 

"Ronan," he broke the silence carefully. "What's going on?"

 

Ronan snorted darkly and swung a left turn that made Adam slide in his seat, "A lot. Isn't that the definition of life? Perpetual motion or some shit?"

 

Adam wasn't that easily put off. "You know what I'm talking about." But Ronan just clenched his jaw and pushed the BMW faster. "Matthew?"

 

"I'm surprised you haven't already heard." Ronan spat, not bothering to look at him. 

 

Adam kept his voice calm, "I don't really talk to people at school."

 

Ronan ground his jaw back and forth and Adam waited. Eventually, whatever complicated equation Ronan was working out must have brought him to the decision to trust Adam, because he opened his mouth and slowed the car a hair. "Matthew got drugged at a party." Adam's stomach dropped. He'd figured as much from what he'd overheard, but he had hoped he was assuming the worst. "One of K's—you know, Kavinsky, from the bathroom." Hearing Ronan call him K made something else unpleasant happen to Adam's stomach. "He got violent apparently. Beat the crap out of some little freshmen, one of his friends. He's really fucked up about it."

 

"And you know he was drugged, not just drunk or something?" In his mind, chapped, grease stained hands threw a beer bottle against the wall. Glass exploded next to his ear.

 

Ronan looked at him sharply, but the accusation in his eyes softened and Adam wondered if Ronan had seen more in Adam's expression than he had wanted him to. "That's what Declan's been saying, but it's Matthew. He wouldn't hurt a fly. If he says someone drugged him someone drugged him." 

 

Adam just nodded—of course Ronan and Declan would even be divided on this. 

 

Ronan continued, finally driving somewhere close to the speed limit, "He's really messed up about it, almost got expelled, the kid was gonna press charges. Declan's handling that stuff." 

 

"Probably wasn't a good time for me to emerge from the ether." 

 

"No!" Ronan said too quickly, his knuckles becoming white knobs on the steering wheel. "I'm glad that you're here. It makes things better, a little. It was... really rough when you were gone."

 

Ronan wasn't a liar, and the quaver in his voice was too earnest. It made Adam's chest ache, made him feel guilty all over again for leaving even though they both knew it wasn't his choice. He swallowed and looked down at his hands. He didn't want to say something brash, didn't want to mess up the fledgling friendship fluttering back to life between them.

 

"Hey, you're not going to disappear on me again are you?"

 

They were parked outside the auto shop, Adam wasn't sure when they had gotten there. "Don't plan on it." He hoped Ronan could tell that he was being honest too.

 

"Then can you plan on seeing me tomorrow?" That smile was creeping back onto Ronan's face, the dangerous one. The one Adam was starting to like. "Breakfast at Two Whales, I'm buying. Don't fight me on that." 

 

Adam gave himself three more seconds of sinking back against the BMW's cushioned seat. He fluttered his eyes closed and imagined this being his future from here on out: Ronan driving him around in his BMW, making plans to hang out on Saturdays. Becoming  _AdamandRonan_  again. A smile crept across his lips as well. "Yeah, okay." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A secret is shared, breakfast is eaten, a junkyard is explored, and Adam discovers just how dire Matthew's situation is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for content relating to suicide in this chapter. Nothing outside of the scope of Life is Strange. If you want more specifics please hit me up on Tumblr (chainsawsdaddy).

Adam swung his legs over the side of his bed as the Blackwell bell tower chimed nine. For once, exhaustion didn't chain him to the mattress. He wanted to be awake. He was going to see Ronan again. He had never realized how something so simple could make everything else seem bearable. 

 

He was taking his towel off the back of his desk chair when movement outside his window caught his attention. A large black bird was perched on the ledge of his window, something squishy and still living wriggling in its beak. Adam reached behind him for his camera but his hand hit something cold. _Thunk_. The mug his hand had collided with rolled on its side, blanketing the top of Adam's desk with water, including a stack of photos he hadn't had time to paste into his journal. 

"Shit, shit—" his hands fluttered uselessly over the disaster then stilled. He could fix this.

He lifted his hand and sent a silent plea to time to go backwards. Time graciously complied.

When the glass was upright and full of water again, Adam moved the photos a safe distance away. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. There was something satisfying in being able to erase his mistakes.

 

 

The bird was gone from the window. Adam lifted his hand and watched with pleasure as it flapped backwards into view and alighted on the windowsill again. He picked up his camera. The morning light was beautiful glinting off the bird's midnight plumage and when it cocked its head it seemed to be peering knowingly through the window, its prey wriggling helplessly in its sharp beak. Adam pressed the shutter button.

The photo ejected from the front of the camera with the familiar hum of dozens of tiny parts working effortlessly together. Adam felt warmth expanding in his chest. He was getting the hang of this. It was still unbelievable—he was half convinced he'd snapped and was hallucinating the whole thing—but as he watched the photo of the crow gain color and definition, he felt contentment tugging at the corners of his lips. For once in his life he had a competitive advantage. Maybe with this life could finally be easy.

 

* * *

The mirrors were already glazed with steam when Adam entered the bathroom with his careworn towel over his shoulder. He was halfway to the closest shower stall when a figure at the sinks made him pause. Matthew was staring into the bowl of the sink, his toothbrush held under the stream of water, but he seemed to have forgotten what he was doing. Adam watched as Matthew continued to stare and the faucet continued to run.

"Hey, Matthew."

The boy jumped and quickly shut off the water. "Oh, Adam."

"I've never seen you in here before."

"I—the sophomore bathroom is flooded." His eyes darted to Adam then away. He shoved his toothbrush into his toiletry bag, fumbling over the zipper. Adam saw the attempt to hide his face for what it was; he had done the same too many times to be fooled.

The facade of "coping" Matthew had worn in front of Ronan and Declan was transparent now. His voice was thick from crying and any attempt at cheerfulness had been abandoned. Adam knew he should say something, but he'd never been good at comforting people. In his experience "comfort" never seemed to last long enough to matter. 

"How are you feeling?" He tried.

"Ronan told you." 

It wasn't a question so Adam didn't bother to confirm what Matthew already knew. "I'm going to breakfast with him, you should come." 

"I don't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't be."

"But I would be," Matthew's voice cracked. He balled his hands into fists on the lip of the sink and stared miserably down at them. For such a brawny person, it was amazing how he could still look so much like a little boy, young and fragile. "I would be. You wouldn't be inviting me if I wasn't such a mess." 

Adam cocked his head. Even without Ronan and Declan around Adam hadn't expected Matthew to admit that he was less than alright. "Are you a mess?"

"No," Matthew sniffed unconvincingly. "I'm just—coping."

Adam wasn't sure he agreed, but there was no point in arguing with Matthew so he nodded. 

"Hey," Matthew turned away from the sink and for the first time Adam could see the red rimming his eyes and the way he had chewed him lip nearly to bleeding. "Don't tell Ronan about this." He ran a hand through his hair, trying so hard to look casual. "He'll just worry."

Adam chewed his own lip, considering, then nodded. This sadness was Matthew's to deal with as he saw fit, he wouldn't interfere.

"Thank you, Adam." 

Adam just nodded again and stepped into one of the available showers. When he came back out a few minutes later Matthew was gone. 

* * *

It was already well into the seventies when Adam wandered outside to get his bike—unseasonably warm for Oregon in October. He wasn't about to complain, the longer the weather stayed pleasant the longer he had to save up for something warmer than his Blackwell sweater.

He followed the path around the science building to the parking lot and was surprised to find a charcoal BMW idling at the curb. Adam walked up the driver-side door and leaned over to squint into the dark tinted glass. The window obligingly rolled down to reveal Ronan grinning at him in another muscle-t, this time with a red beanie slouching off the back of his skull. 

"I didn't ask you to pick me up."

"Knights in shining armor don't have to be summoned." 

Adam snorted.

Ronan pushed open his door and Adam stepped back to avoid getting hit. "Actually, I was hoping to check on Matthew while I was here. He hasn't been picking up."

Matthew's bloodshot eyes flashed in Adam's mind, begging him not to say anything. The warm buzz that had started up in his chest on seeing Ronan faltered. "I saw him in the showers this morning. I invited him to come but he didn't want to." 

"I guess he probably still has that crew practice," Ronan gazed over the roof of the BMW toward Blackwell's brick buildings. "He seem okay?" 

Adam rubbed his temple and considered what he could tell Ronan without betraying Matthew's trust. "I think he wants his space." He dug his thumb harder into his temple, the sun was glaring too brightly off the hood of Ronan's car, it was giving him a headache. 

"You okay, man?" 

"Yeah, my head just—" The world trembled around him then went dark.

* * *

When he blinked his eyes open he was at the foot of the lighthouse. The bay was in swirling disarray below him. Leaves and rain whipped into his face and entire tree branches crashed to the ground. Litter—plastic bags, soda bottles, scraps of paper—rolled across the ground before being gathered up by the thunderous wind. A newspaper plastered itself to Adam's calf. As he reached down to pull it off, Adam's eyes were drawn to the date printed in irrefutable Times New Roman: Friday, October 16th, 2015. The paper fell from his hands and was swept into the air.

* * *

Adam gasped back into consciousness. His heart was hammering and his cheeks stung from the memory of debris gusting into his face. 

"Friday," he gasped. "This Friday. It's real, it's real. We need to go. Get out. Arcadia Bay—"

He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It wasn't raining any more. He wasn't on the hill by the lighthouse, he was reclined in a comfortable leather seat, the chrome handle of a glove compartment staring at him.

He gulped in deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. 

"Dude, what the fuck?"

He hadn't noticed Ronan's hand on his shoulder. Adam groaned and pressed the back of his hand to the bridge of his nose. He really didn't want to have to explain to Ronan that he was having visions of the end of the world. 

"How did I get in the car?" He asked, his voice less steady than he would have liked. 

"What, did you want me to leave you on the asphalt? You're lucky I caught you. I don't think a concussion would have flattered your skin tone." 

Adam tried for humor, "Looks like you're my knight in shining armor after all." It fell flat.

"Yeah, I'm fucking heroic, now back to my previous question: what the fuck?" 

Adam bought himself time shaking off Ronan's hand and pulling the lever to right his seat as he weighed his options. He could do what he always did and keep everything to himself, or he could tell the truth and risk Ronan thinking he was insane. There was a chance—a chance Adam still cleaved to like a dying man to the promise of a mirage—that Ronan would believe him. Adam wanted so badly to share his secrets with Ronan, the way they had when they were younger. 

"I've been having visions."

"Like flashbacks?" Adam didn't like the weight of suggestion in the word 'flashbacks.'

"No, no. More like premonitions, I guess." He felt stupid saying it out loud. He took a deep breath through his nose then plunged forward, if he didn't get this out all at once he might not get it out at all, "I passed out in photography yesterday and saw a vision of Arcadia Bay getting destroyed by a tornado, when I woke up I could reverse time."

"Like time travel?" Ronan's face was unreadable.

"Like I can make time rewind so that I can fix things. That's how I saved you. Kavinsky shot you and I went back in time and pulled the alarm so that he didn't." 

Adam felt winded. Ronan's fingers tapped thoughtfully against the steering wheel. Adam nervously folded the frayed edge of his sleeve. He wished Ronan would say something, but Ronan just reached for the gear shift, taking the car out of park.

"Where are we going?"

"Two Whales." Ronan said as if it should have been obvious. 

"What? Why?"

"Does you having a magic power mean you no longer need three square meals a day? Because news flash: I do." 

"You aren't going to question that fact that I just told you I can reverse time?"

Ronan shrugged, digging an iPod out of the compartment in the arm rest and plugging it into the aux cord while steering one handed. "Seems legit."

"Seems legit?! Ronan I just told you that I made time go backwards to save your life!" 

"Yeah, you explained that adequately the first time." 

"But—"

Ronan found a song that was just as grating as all the other music he listened to and spared a questioning glance for Adam. "But what?"

"I'm not sure _I_ believe I can do that!" 

"Okay."

Adam felt irritation prickling in his chest. Was Ronan trying to incite his anger? Why was he being so blasé about something that should be physically, temporally, scientifically impossible? "Ronan, this is crazy! Who just accepts that their best friend can reverse time?"

"Are you?"

"What?"

"Are you my best friend?"

"That's what you're concerned about right now?"

"Parrish—"

"Are you humoring me? Oh, the poor charity case, guess he finally went insane! I'll just smile and nod when—"

"Parrish."

"Because I am being completely serious, Ronan."

"Adam!"

"What?" Adam slammed his hand on the dashboard so hard that he was in danger of the airbag releasing. 

"It's snowing."

Adam blinked at Ronan, trying to make sense of what he had just said, then slowly turned his gaze to the windshield. Snow was drifting lazily through the sunshine and landing on the windshield where it turned into flecks of water. 

Adam reached forward and pressed his hand to the glass—it was still warm. There was no way that in the past five minutes the temperature had dropped far enough for snow. It didn't make sense; he could see the snow falling but there was no reason it should be there. He sat back heavily in his seat and rubbed a hand across his forehead. 

Ronan's voice was low and steady when he spoke and Adam realized he's turned off the music. "Weird shit happens, man. Who am I not to believe it?"

Adam sighed, "You're fucking nuts."

When Adam opened his eyes Ronan was grinning at him across the gear shift. "Yeah, I like to think so."

* * *

The snow had already turned into shallow puddles by the time they pulled into the diner's uneven parking lot. Adam almost doubted that it had been snow at all as he stepped out into the balmy morning and followed Ronan toward the faded diner topped with giant neon sign of its namesake. The mouthwatering sent of pancake batter and bacon grease beckoned them inside. The diner was half full with the regular crowd: fishermen, truck drivers, cops in uniform, kids from the public high school that Adam had probably gone to elementary school with. Ronan chose a booth as far from the rest of the diner's patrons as possible, and Adam was thankful for it—he didn't want anyone overhearing their conversation and thinking he was crazy.

A waitress presented them with a pair of laminated menus which Ronan waved away, "I'm gonna have the number 3, a side of hash browns, and a black coffee. And my friend will have," he lifted an eyebrow at Adam across the table, "you still want a number 4 scrambled with sourdough?" 

Adam's lips twitched into a smile despite himself. He hadn't let the Lynches take him out to breakfast as often as he knew Aurora and Ronan would have liked, but every time they did he'd ordered a number 4 with sourdough. "Rye now, actually." Ronan made a face. "And coffee."

"Yeah, and two orange juices."

"Coming right up."

Adam didn't fail to notice that he got a cheerful wink and Ronan didn't.

"So, Parrish," Ronan leaned over the table, fingers laced in a show of fake seriousness, "are you gonna prove to me that you have magical time powers or not?"

"I thought you believed me."

"I do." Ronan said simply, "but you're obviously not going to be satisfied until I make you prove it."

Adam scoffed at that. He felt indignant but couldn't figure out what point he wanted to argue—which made him more indignant.

"What's in my pockets?"

Adam stared at him.

"Don't look at me like that. This isn't a Tolkien reference. I'm gonna show you what's in my pockets then you're going to go back in time and tell me before I show you. Got it?" Ronan emptied his pockets, spreading their contents out on the table next to his wallet: a key ring with two keys, a lighter, 77 cents, a crumpled up napkin from The Burger Joint, and his cell phone. "Work your magic, Parrish."

It was a simple enough task and a clever way to demonstrate his new ability, but Adam didn't care for being pandered to. In a moment of sudden inspiration, or maybe petty revenge, he grabbed Ronan's cell phone off the table and dropped it into his own lap. Before Ronan could protest he lifted his hand. 

Red bubbled at the corners of his vision like developing film—it didn't worry him anymore.  He watched Ronan move in reverse in front of him, returning the items to his pockets. Behind Ronan the diner's other patrons walked backwards and spat orange juice back into their glasses. Once all the items were removed from the table Adam dropped his hand. 

"—tell me before I show you. Got it?" 

"You have a lighter." 

Ronan's hand stopped half way to his pocket. Then he must have caught on to what was happening because his face lit with understanding and he leaned toward Adam with eyes so hungry they could swallow Adam whole. "Now how do I know that's not just and educated guess? The devil's in the details, Parrish." The teasing lilt in his voice barely disguised his glee. 

"It's orange. Cheap. You wrote "Light me up" on the side in black Sharpie but most of the 'L' is rubbed off." 

Ronan's eyes were  _sparkling_ —there really wasn't another word for it. He was full of so much energy that he was vibrating with it. He chewed the inside of his bottom lip as if trying to hold himself back, to keep himself from detonating before Adam had finished with his demonstration.

"What else?" he demanded.

"Keys."

"How many?"

"Two. On the same ring. One silver, one gold."

"And?"

"A napkin from The Burger Joint. Someone's number is written on the edge—a girl's judging by the hand writing."

"And?"

"Seventy-seven cents," he closed his eyes, recalling the image of the coins on the laminate table top, "two quarters, three nickels, a dime, two pennies."

"What else?"

"Nothing else." 

Ronan got a little divot between his brows when he was troubled. "Give it a second, you're missing something big."

"No, I'm not." Adam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from looking pleased. He wasn't used to feeling self-satisfied, he liked it. "Turn out your pockets, Lynch." 

Ronan pulled out the lighter, then the napkin—both were exactly as Adam had described—then the handful of change. He spread the coins out, counting them—seventy-seven cents.

"Adam Parrish, you fuckingmarvelous creature." Ronan Lynch's happiness was like his anger, so big it could bowl you over. Adam planted his feet and let it wash over him. He'd never had someone look at him the way Ronan was now, like he was something out of the ordinary, like he was in some way fantastic. "You did forget something though," Ronan continued, his happiness unwavering, "But I'll chalk that up to bad memory." 

"Really—I could swear—what did I forget?" Adam feigned innocence.

Ronan reached for his phone. He paused, the divot in his brow returning. Adam watched as he padded down each of his pockets. 

"What are you looking for?"

"I could have sworn I brought my phone—" He stopped to gape at his phone when Adam set it down on the table. "I had that in my pocket a second ago."

Adam shrugged. Despite his best efforts to come off casual, satisfaction was leaching into his voice, "I guess that depends how you conceive of time. A couple seconds for you—two minutes for me—you know how it is."

Ronan  _crowed_. He slapped his palm down on the laminate table. A waitress freshening up a pair of coffees at the counter pursed her lips warily, a pair of groggy looking truckers shook their heads in their direction—Ronan just kept laughing. "You—fucking—minx." He wheezed. "You—you—magician."

Warmth was tingling up Adam's spine. This was how things were supposed to be. Ronan believed him, Ronan found the fact that he could reverse time amusing, and they were friends again. At least Adam thought they must be. Being together again felt natural. It felt like rolling down the hill in the Lynch's yard: heart racing as Ronan chased him up the hill, dropping onto the damp turf, letting go and feeling the ground fly under him. He hadn't known he could be this happy again.

"Hot damn!" Ronan dried his eyes with the hem of his shirt as the waitress came to set down their drinks. "This is fucking amazing. We are going to have so much fun with this fucking hat trick."

"We are not robbing a bank."

Ronan smirked, "Wasn't what I had in mind, but great suggestion."

Adam rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed. 

"Eat up, Parrish," he said as the same waitress came back to set a plate heaping with eggs, potatoes, and bacon in front of Adam and monstrous stack of hash browns and whipped cream topped waffles in front of Ronan, "We've got places to be."

* * *

 

 

Later, Ronan drove them to the far edge of Arcadia Bay along some back roads Adam didn't recognize. He parked the BMW just outside an open chain-link gate. In front of them was a junkyard strewn with broken down cars, rusted sheet metal, a dilapidated school bus, and appliances dating back three decades. It looked like the perfect place to get busted smoking weed or contract tetanus. 

Ronan loped into the middle of the lot, kicking aside an empty oil can and side stepping a puddle streaked with a rainbow of gasoline residue. With surprising ease he mounted the roof of a rusted red corolla. This was his natural habitat; among the dilapidated cast offs of other people's lives he was a king. The sun kissed his pale shoulders and rusted metal became a throne beneath him. "Welcome to The Shit Hole," he gestured around him, "the finest Arcadia Bay has to offer." 

Adam didn't bother to point out that the junkyard was far more scenic than the corner of Arcadia Bay he had grown up in because he could hear the affection hidden in Ronan's voice. 

"What are we doing here?" He walked up to the car to gaze up at Ronan.

Ronan reached behind him. There was a flash of silver. 

"We're going to—"

"No."

"What?"

"Ronan, that's a gun."

"Jeeze-louise,I thought it was a kitten."

"It's Kavinsky’s isn't it?"

"Yeah, I lifted it when he was in gym class." He was clearly pleased with himself. "I thought we could—"

"No."

"You didn't let me finish."

Adam sighed, "Ronan, I'm not going to play with guns. I'm not going to play with that gun, I saw Kavinsky  _kill you_  with it." 

Ronan jumped off the car landing in front of Adam. He was careful to keep the gun pointed away from them. "Exactly. You saw him kill me and I'm not dead. You saved my life, and you can do it again, if something goes wrong." He snapped with his free hand, "Just like it never happened." 

Adam stared at him, wanting Ronan to know how idiotic he sounded. He tried not to let the flash of mischievous glee in Ronan's eyes sway him.

"C'mon, we're back together again, you have a special power, don't you just want to do something reckless?"

Ronan was tall enough that when he stood so close Adam had to tilt his chin up and squint into the sun to continue glaring at him. This close he could feel Ronan buzzing with pent up adrenaline. It was contagious. 

"Fine."

Ronan crowed triumphantly. He ruffled Adam's hair with the hand not holding the gun, then dropped his hand quickly and turned away. "Guess we need some targets then," he said casually. "Help me find some beer bottles." 

 

There was something oddly stilted about the whole interaction. Adam filed it away to think about later.

He wandered between the piles of cast offs looking for bottles. How many lives had contributed to the banks of junk on either side of him? Why had that car stopped running? Who had owned the motorboat with the rusted hole in the bottom? Had it been a gift? A dream saved up for year after year? A midlife crisis? The sun was shining, pine trees rustled around the edge of the yard, a train rumbled by on the tracks at the far end of the lot. The tracks were so close Adam could feel the train whistle humming in his chest as it blared past. He could understand why Ronan liked the place.

As he picked is way toward the train tracks, he found a small cinder block structure without a door. He blinked rapidly, adjusting to the dimmer light let in by a half dozen spots where cinder blocks had been left out of the wall. He had been expecting to find cobwebs and more junk, maybe tools, but he'd stumbled into some sort of runaway's hide away. The small room was filled with make shift furniture, mainly benches and book shelves made of planks and cinder blocks and an old wire spool acting as a table. One wall was entirely covered by a topographical map of the United States. Someone had taken a sharpie to it, crossing it with thick, arching lines. The other walls were a collage of miscellany: photos, sketches, fliers for concerts. Everywhere phrases were dabbed onto the cinder blocks with black paint. Adam squinted at the closest:  _Faciem durum cacantis habes_. It was Latin. Adam could pick apart half of its meaning and was pretty sure he didn't want to know the rest. Next to the scrawl was a photo of three boys: one was broad shouldered with a precise, well pressed smile, one was Ronan, and the other was Noah Czerny. 

"I see you found Casa de Shit Hole." 

Adam jumped, he hadn't heard Ronan walk up. Ronan swiped an obnoxiously floral print baseball cap off the wire spool and dropped it on Adam's head.

"This place is yours?" It was a stupid question. Of course it was, Ronan's picture was on the wall.

"It is now—my co-owners don't seem very likely to come back for it." 

Adam would have had to be fully deaf to miss the bitterness in his voice. 

"Your friends?"

Ronan just grunted, he was sliding back into Surly Ronan. 

"Who's he," he pointed at the boy with the expensive looking smile and kind eyes.

"Richard Campbell Gansey III. No, I shit you not. His family actually thought it was a good idea to name three different individuals Dick Gansey."

"Are you still friends?" Adam wouldn't let himself sound jealous. Objectively he was glad Ronan had made friends after he left. Adam knew how lonely it was to have no one, but he couldn't help but feel gratified by Ronan's derisive snort.

"Gansey was the first friend I made after you left, but he decided we should do long distance. You see, he's the type of person who always ends up with what he wants and what Gansey wants is to find this old dead Welsh King. You've been to Arcadia Bay, the closest thing we have to dead royalty is that guy outside the gas station who thinks he's Julius Caesar. Gansey fucked off to Virginia." 

"And Noah?" Part of Adam didn't want Ronan to answer. Noah's eyes already haunted him. He didn't want to know there was a real boy behind them, didn't want to think about why he could be missing for so long. 

"You've seen the fucking signs haven't you?" Ronan snapped. "I put up enough of them." 

With sudden clarity, Adam could see Ronan running through ink cartridge after ink cartridge printing fliers, visiting every lamp post and cork board in town. It occurred to him that the number at the bottom of the flier must be Ronan's. Adam didn't know what to say, his heart was suddenly heavy. He opened his mouth, but Ronan was already ducking into a corner to grab a wastebasket full of glass bottles and crumpled paper. 

Ronan's shoulder hit his as he sauntered out the door, "You coming or what?" 

* * *

 

They lined the bottles up on top of a stack of railroad ties. Ronan passed the gun from one hand to another as if testing its weight, then held it out straight and squinted one eye shut.

"Have you ever shot a gun before?" 

"Nope," He said, popping the 'P.'

Adam sighed. "Don't lock your elbow. You're gonna hurt yourself."

"Have  _you_  fired a gun?"

"No, I've watched a crime drama before. It's 2015. Now do you want to dislocate your elbow?" 

Ronan turned back to the bottles and loosened his elbow. "Okay, fine. Here's how we're going to do this. I'm going to shoot, if I miss you go back and tell me how to correct my shot. Wouldn't want to waste a bullet." 

"Alright, let's get it over with." 

"That's the spirit."

Ronan's first shot was too high, missing the bottle by about two inches. Ronan lowered the gun and turned to Adam. "Alright, do your magic."

Adam rolled his eyes, but raised his hand. 

"Aim a little lower," he told Ronan, who was standing in front of him, the gun held out.

Ronan obeyed and shards of glass exploded outward, leaving a jagged stump of a bottle. 

"Teamwork," Ronan observed. "Fuck yeah."

They shot three more, Adam going back each time, sometimes multiple times to correct Ronan's aim. He had to admit it was satisfying to watch each bullet find its mark. He didn't like wasting things. 

"Think if I hit that car it would ricocheted back and hit a bottle?" Ronan was buzzing with adrenaline, gazing around the junkyard like it held unlimited potential. 

Adam just shrugged, which Ronan must have taken as permission, because he aimed the gun at the wheel of one of the cars piled to their right and fired. The bullet ricocheted off to bury itself in some lumber a few yards away.

Adam lifted his hand and time swirled around him. 

Ronan was looking at him again, waiting for his input.

"Don't hit the wheel. It won't do anything." 

Ronan squinted at his options. "What about that bumper?" He turned back to face Adam, "It looks like—whoa, Adam, you're bleeding." 

Adam raised his hand to his face and found two lines of sticky blood dripping from his nose. He pulled his fingers away to look at the red on his fingertips. Passing out this morning and now a nose bleed? Something was wrong. Maybe he was pushing himself to hard. 

"Here," Ronan had fished the napkin out of his pocket and shoved it into Adam's hand. 

"Don't you want the number on this?" Ronan looked at him like it’s the stupidest thing Adam had ever suggested. Adam pressed the napkin to his bleeding nose.

"Do you wanna sit down or something?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you going to pass out again, 'cause—” 

"Really, Ronan."

Ronan snorted and he turned away to take his worry out on an innocent crate. Adam dabbed off the blood and checked with his fingers to see if he was still bleeding. He felt bad leaving a bio hazard in the junkyard, but these were his only pair of un-ripped jeans and he didn't want the blood to seep through and stain them, so he lobbed the napkin into a pile of nearby junk. 

"Give me a turn with that."

Ronan turned to him, surprise etched into his brow and delight glinting in his eyes. He handed over the gun handle first.

Adam tested the weight in his hand. It wasn't the first time he'd held a gun—he'd hidden his father's before, when he was too violent to be trusted not to use it, and too blindingly drunk to remember it had been missing the next day—but he'd never held a gun he intended to shoot. 

He fixed his gaze on the heart of a brown glass bottle and brought his left hand up to steady his aim. It was a lot like photography actually: all he had to do was take aim and take the shot. He took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. 

The bullet shattered the neck of the bottle. Ronan cheered.

"Dude, did you do your time thing for that?" 

Adam shook his head and Ronan looked impressed, "You are full of fucking wonders." He grinned so widely that Adam couldn't help but mirror the expression back at him. 

"Lynch!"

Startled, they wheeled around to see a familiar figure slouching across the junkyard. Adam quickly hid the gun behind his back, his hand feeling sweaty on the grip.

"I was hoping that was you." Out of his Blackwell uniform Kavinsky looked like a millionaire delinquent. A white wife beater stretched tight over his ribs, gold necklaces looped over the exposed section of his concave chest, sunglasses that were probably worth more than Adam's whole wardrobe rested on his crown, holding back his greasy hair. The Blackwell uniform had hidden how emaciated he looked, and florescent bathroom lighting had disguised the fact he was nearly as skeletally pale as his shirt.

"What are you doing here, K?"

"You know me—can't resist the siren song of gun fire." He kicked a paint can that was lying in his way and it went rolling under one of the scrapped cars.

"Who's this?"

"A friend."

"I thought I was your friend." 

"Friends don't pull guns on each other in school bathrooms." 

"You're still hung up on that? Shit man, shit. I didn't shoot you, did I?"

"You would have." Adam spat through gritted teeth. Both boys turned to him, Ronan's expression was unreadable, but Kavinsky's lips were curling into a sneer.  

"Oooohoo! Lynch, your puppy's got some bite." 

He flicked the bill of Adam's baseball cap and it fell off. Adam didn't reach for it; the gun was warm and sticky with sweat in his hand. "My, my, Adam fucking Parrish. All the clues fall into place. That's why you ratted on me, you little weasel? Your boyfriend tell you I was being mean to him? Shit, you could have gotten me in trouble." Kavinsky was right in his face, the undertone of violence in his words all too apparent when his spittle was hitting Adam's cheeks. Adam breathed through his nose and refused to flinch. 

"K, step off." 

"Oooo, protecting your lady love?" Kavinsky's eyes were still boring into Adam. They were focused today, free of the blissed out haze of drugs, but none of the twitching manic energy had left his body. "You like danger, huh? That why a good little Blackwell boy like you is hanging around with Ronan Lynch? Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but you're barking up the wrong tree." His laugh was low and deadly, the hiss of a toxic gas leak. "Lynch doesn't have any teeth, see." His hand moved to his pocket and with a jerk of his wrist he unfurled a butterfly knife. "No testacles either." He had the knife pressed to Ronan's groin before either Adam or Ronan could react.

Ronan staggered back half a step, but Kavinsky's hand shot up to grab the back of his neck. "Nuh uh uh Lynch," his thumb caressed Ronan's jaw as if it was all some twisted show of affection. "I wouldn't try that if I were you." His knife was pressed firmly into the crease of Ronan's thigh, a well-placed jerk of the knife could find Ronan's femoral artery—among other things. Ronan's teeth were gritted, his eyes cold and hard, but Adam could see the rage in them, the anger at being put in a position he couldn't punch his way out of. 

"Now, let’s see," Kavinsky drawled, relishing his control over Ronan, "which one of you is going to pay for ratting on me?"

It was just like photography. Adam saw the scene in front of him: the angle of the sunlight, the way the subjects were posed, just where he would need to aim to get the perfect shot. He pulled the gun from behind his back. "Drop the knife."

"Hot damn," Kavinsky's grin curled into something approximating delight. Tilting himself toward Adam made his nose cast a shadow down the side of his face and opened him so that more of his chest was visible from Adam's angle. "You gonna kill me? You wanna blow my fucking brains out. Let's see you do it Parrish." His hand jerked and Ronan flinched.

Adam let out a breath and pulled the trigger. 

The gun clicked.

Kavinsky howled in furious glee and stepped back from Ronan to clutch his stomach. "I like this one, Lynch." He panted between fits of laughter. "Oh, he's a keeper. He's got more balls than you."

Wiping tears from his eyes with the hand holding the now closed knife, Kavinsky slouched against the hood of a rust eaten Ford. "So what's on the agenda, you wanna go for a drive, crash some cars, steal candy from a baby? I'm free all afternoon." He dropped his dark sunglasses over his eyes as if dismemberment and death had never been part of the conversation. Adam couldn't keep up. His heart was still racing, his hands trembling, He could have  _killed_ someone.

 

"Fuck off, K." 

"I see how it is." Kavinsky slipped a cigarette between his lips and continued to talk around it. "I thought of all people you'd be down for a threesome. Or is it Parrish's delicate sensibilities you're protecting?" He dug a silver lighter out of his pocket and held it to the end. The side of the lighter was encrusted with turquoise rhinestones in the shape of a skull—it seemed a little PGfor Kavinsky.

 

"Where the fuck did you get that?" Ronan's voice was suddenly simmering with rage. 

"It's mine." 

"Like fuck it is, that's Noah's—he carried it everywhere, why the fuck do you have it?" His hands were already in fists and he was subconsciously adjusting into a boxing pose. Adam was going to get whiplash from how quickly the tone of the conversation kept changing. 

"Yeah, yeah, it used to be his. Mine now." 

"If you know anything about what happened to him I swear—" 

"I thought we were done threatening each other." 

Ronan deflated. His hands loosed at his sides, and when he looked at Kavinsky it was with an earnestness that Adam didn't think the other boy deserved. "You would tell me though, right? If you knew what happened to him? If you knew anything?"

Kavinsky tossed his still smoldering cigarette at Ronan's feet and pushed off the car. "I'm not your fucking girlfriend, Lynch," he sneered and walked away.

A moment later there was a squeal of tires, and as abruptly as Kavinsky had arrived he was gone.

"What a worthless human being." 

"He's not that bad once you get to know him." Ronan sighed, his shoulders finally relaxing, "No, I take that back, he's worse." 

Ronan reached for the spent gun and Adam handed it back gratefully. He was a monster, unpredictable and dangerous; he should never have been trusted to use something with such lethal potential. He couldn't believe that he had aimed the gun at Kavinsky's chest and calmly pulled the trigger. Ronan tucked it into the waistband of his jeans then hefted a length of two by four and swinging it experimentally. "Looks like I owe you my life twice now." He said it so casually, as if owing his life to someone was no big deal, as if Adam he hadn't spent his entire life trying not to owe anything to anyone.

"I almost shot him." 

"It's Kavinsky, he deserved it."

"No, Ronan, I could have killed someone. I'm no better than he is."

Ronan swung at one of the remaining bottles and it was jettisoned into the side of the school bus where it burst into pieces. "Nah, you wouldn't have killed him."

"I pulled the trigger," Adam protested. 

"Yeah, but if that gun had gone off I'd bet my left testicle you would have reversed time and found a way to stop him without shooting him. Kavinsky burns things for the joy of destruction. You don't."

Warmth was filling Adam's chest again, replacing the fear and self-hatred that their interaction with Kavinsky had infected him with. "You put a lot of faith in me."

"That's what friends are for." Ronan said, lining his plank up with the last bottle. "We're partners in crime." He lowered his board to grin at Adam over his shoulder, the tip of his tongue sticking out through his teeth. "Partners in  _time_." 

"You're horrible." 

Ronan just grinned wider and swung, the final bottle shattered on impact. 

 

* * *

 

Eventually, with the sun beating down on their shoulders, they wandered to the train tracks. Ronan pulled the handful of coins from his pocket and set two pennies on the rails. Then they retreated up the grassy slope and laid on their backs to wait for a train. 

"I never realized how peacefully Arcadia Bay could be," Adam let his eyes slip closed and tilted his chin toward the sunlight. 

When Ronan didn't respond he cracked an eye open to see what he was doing. Ronan quickly turned his gaze back to the sky, but not before Adam could see his soft expression as his eyes traced over Adam's face. Adam swallowed. It wasn't the first time he had noticed Ronan looking at him like that. Everything was beginning to fit together in his head: Kavinsky's nonchalant comments, Ronan's looks, the way any casual contact made him abruptly self-conscious. He knew what it would add up to. The warmth in his chest expanded. It felt like pride. It felt good to know someone like Ronan who had only disdain for the rest of the world could look at him like that.

Ronan's eyes darted back to him and Adam realized he had been staring. Their gaze met and caught. Adam could see something in Ronan unwinding, he opened his mouth to say something. Adam's heart was suddenly in his throat, the warmth in his chest was suddenly scorching.

A train whistled and the moment broke.

Adam pushed up onto his elbows to watch the train approach with a perplexing mixture of relief and disappointment swirling in his chest. Car after car of metal containers adorned in chipping yellow, red, and green letters trundled by. The noise was so loud and the vibrations so strong that Adam could almost imagine he could hear out of his left ear. They didn't look at each other as they train passed, but Adam could feel Ronan next to him as clearly as he could feel the vibrations of the train in the dirt beneath his hands. 

When the train was gone they searched for the smashed pennies in the gravel around the tracks. Ronan pressed one of the pennies into Adam's hand. It was still warm. 

 

* * *

 

Adam had promised his supervisor at the local lomography shop that he'd come in for a few hours to develop film. By the time Ronan dropped him off he had three hours to work before walking back to Blackwell for the Photography Society meeting at four. He wouldn't usually worry about missing a meeting, but Professor Greenmantle had agreed to sacrifice his precious Saturday evening to do a last minute critique of photos for the Every Day Heroes Contest—a contest Adam still wasn't sure he was going to enter. He was hoping the meeting would help him decide. 

He had his potential submission in his bag. It was the closest thing to a selfie that he had ever taken. He'd borrowed a tripod and self-timer from Tad, who was too obtuse to realize Adam didn't like him, a fact that only came in handy when Adam needed to borrow Polaroid gear. Adam had positioned himself with his back to the tripod, facing the wall behind his bed which he had covered with photos. Some of the photos were his, some were old pictures he'd bought for pennies at yard sales. They were all of strangers: gas station attendants, waitresses, smiling kids and frowning grandfathers, puppies and street buskers. He put his uniform button-down on halfway like he was just getting dressed and carefully taped the self timer button with his toe. 

 

It took three tries, three precious Polaroids to get the perfect shot. His gut clenched when he saw the final product. The photos on the wall were in sharp focus while his own head and shoulders in the foreground were fuzzy around the edges, but not enough to obscure the cigarette burns on the exposed section of his shoulder. 

 

The photo was the best work he had ever done, but the thought of showing it to others—to a gallery full of people if he won—made him sick. It was so personal, a secret he'd kept for so long except from those in his closest confidence. 

 

He had taken that photo the morning he found out he could rewind time.

****

Grey clouds hung low over Arcadia Bay as Adam left the shop, making the air uncomfortably muggy. Adam had to jog to get to Blackwell before the portentous humidity turned into an actual thunderstorm. He arrived out of breath five minutes before the meeting was slated to start. They were supposed to meet in the photography classroom, but he turned the corner into the languages corridor to stop at the drinking fountain. As he bent over to slurp the metallic tasting water, a door opened to his right. 

"We all have to live with the consequences of our actions." Professor Whelk's nasal sneer drifted into the hallway, "Just because you decided it was appropriate to get drunk on a school night doesn't mean the faculty of this school needs to bend over backwards to make allowances for your selfish behavior." 

"But Professor Whelk—"

Adam's stomach dropped. That was Matthew's. He was pleading, his voice twisting desperately around the words. Adam stopped the fountain but stayed bent over, not wanting to look like he was eavesdropping if Whelk stepped out of the class room.

"My no is final, Mr. Lynch," a perverse note of satisfaction laced Whelk's words. Adam gritted his teeth. He wasn't usually one to fight other people's battles, but Matthew was such a gentle, tender person—Adam suddenly understood Ronan's protective grip on Matthew's shoulder the night before. He tamped down the anger flooding his chest. He couldn't explode at a teacher, so he braced his hands on the drinking fountain and wracked his brain for an excuse to pull Matthew away. 

"And one more thing, Lynch." A sideways glance revealed that Whelk was in his doorway now, Matthew standing just in front of him. His usual gold curls were limp and unkempt, his shoulders hunched. "Get your act together, no one is going to take pity on a brat who can't take responsibility for his own mistakes." 

Rage tasted like bile in Adam's throat. Polite excuses be damned, he reeled around to tell Whelk exactly what he thought of him. Before he could open his mouth a voice rang out behind him. "That is quite enough, Barrington."

 

Colin Greenmantle sauntered onto the scene. For a fleeting moment Whelk blanched, his eyes widening with fear before he regained his usual expression of having just smelled something unpleasant. The anger in Adam's chest rumbled approvingly at Whelk's moment of weakness; he clearly hadn't expected to be caught harassing a student, not by another member of the faculty. 

"I don't think Principal Wells will like to hear that you're unleashing your anger management issues on students," Greenmantle said as lightly as if he was commenting on Whelk's tie. Whelk simmered with frustration. Next to Greenmantle he looked disheveled and ungraceful, like he was in a perpetual state of just having slept in his car.

Greenmantle laid a slender hand on Matthew's shoulder. "Matthew, why don't we have a little talk. Mr. Parrish—" Adam jumped. He felt invisible so often, sometimes he forgot he wasn't. "Tell the Photography Society I'll be a few minutes late to the meeting."

Adam jerked his chin in a nod and watched as Whelk slammed the door to his office and Greenmantle steered Matthew down the hallway. When the corridor was abandoned, he hitched his messenger bag higher on his shoulder and retreated to the photography classroom. Maybe he had misjudged Colin Greenmantle after all.

 

* * *

 

The critique only started five minutes late. Adam sat at the back of the room, his Polaroid still in his bag, still unsure if he wanted to present it. At the front of the classroom students rambled about inspiration and composition, but Adam was only half invested in the meeting. He couldn't stop thinking about how sad Matthew had looked.

He remembered Matthew that last day before his father had whisked him away from Arcadia Bay. Matthew had been a pudgy nine-year-old in a pair of blue rain boots that went up to his knees, hand-me-downs from Ronan. Adam had felt envy as he watched Matthew run laughing through the lake forming in the Lynch's front yard, both because his own thin soled sneakers would be soaked through within seconds of stepping onto the grass, and because Matthew seemed so genuinely happy to exist. That day he had spitefully wished that Matthew understood how cruel life could be. Now it seemed like his wish had come true. He wished it hadn't;Matthew wasn't built for dealing with bad things.

Tad Carruthers was giving a very enthusiastic defense of a picture of his mom when Henry Cheng screamed. "Holy s—holy s—holy—guys there's someone on the roof. There's someone on that roof!"

The group was out of their seats in an instant, scrambling to get a better view. They were across the main quad from the boy’s dormitory where a figure stood on the roof, silhouetted against the storm clouds. 

"Okay, okay, everyone take your seats. I'm going to call campus security," Greenmantle chided. 

Adam couldn't make out the figure from so far, but he felt suddenly cold. His brain was whirring, piecing together a puzzle he hadn't realized he had the pieces to. The images began to come together: Matthew's blood shot eyes, his breaking voice, his instance that Adam shouldn't tell Ronan he was less than fine—Adam didn't like the picture they were making.

He was the first person out the door. 

Adam's feet slipped on the newly wet grass as he sprinted across the quad. People were already gathered outside and more were pouring out of the dorms. No one seemed to care that the rain was soaking their shoulders. Every eye was fixed on the horribly familiar figure above them. 

"Matthew!" 

Matthew lifted one foot.

Adam slipped. Pain throbbed in the heels of his hands as he caught himself. Mud and rainwater soaked the knees of his jeans. There was no way he could make it to the roof of the dorm in time. He craned his neck and watched, helpless, as Matthew paused, his foot held over the edge of the building. He hung there for a moment, the way a leaf caught in a cross breeze will hover in place. Then he lost his balance, his arms wheeled, and he fell. 

Adam lunged to his feet, hand outstretched, and his brain finally catching up to what was happening. He didn't need to be helpless.  _He could fix this_. 

Matthew stopped falling, but as the edges of Adam's vision began to burn, pain like he had never felt thundered into his skull. He staggered, gasping for breath, but managed to keep his hand up. He squinted through the pain; Matthew was on the roof again, both feet planted. 

Adam's power spluttered out. 

He gasped as time charged forward again. On the roof, Matthew lifted his foot. Adam watched in horror, fingers pressed to his aching temples.

_ No _ . Adam pried a hand off his head to reach out. Why wasn't this working? Was his power a finite thing? Had he squandered it on answering questions in class and shooting beer bottles? 

Adam stretched his fingers until they felt like they would pop out of their sockets and Matthew stopped falling just as he toppled over the edge.

The pain was blinding.

Matthew righted himself.

The red at the corners of Adam's vision flickered and disappeared. Time was moving forward again.

Adam panted, blood dripped into his mouth. When had his nose started bleeding? He couldn't keep doing this. It was going to kill him, but if he gave up Matthew was going to die. 

Adam focused every thought, every ounce of his will power. For Matthew, for Ronan, he would make time obey him. When he stretched out his hand time froze. 

The people around him were statues; the raindrops were suspended in midair. Adam's head was splitting in half. He clutched his skull with one hand, fighting the pain and the nausea, feeling the blood flowing freely now down his face.

He couldn't afford to stop and think about what was happening. He pushed forward. It was like moving though molasses. The air itself was fighting him, but he pushed his way forward, one step, two steps, five feet, ten feet. He would reach the roof. He would stop Matthew from falling.

* * *

 

He shouldered open the door to the roof and time snapped. Rain was falling again. Matthew was in front of him, standing on the raised lip of the roof. 

"Matthew!" he rasped. 

Matthew turned hollow blue eyes on him, devoid of their usual sunshine. "Adam? What are you doing here?" His voice was flat, emotionless. Adam made to cross the space between them, but Matthew recoiled. "Don't come any closer!" 

Adam stopped in his tracks. Blood still coated his face, but the pounding in his head was fading, the nausea settling. He blinked, trying to regain his facilities. He wiped blood off his upper lip with the heel of his hand. "Matthew, I just want to talk to you." He swallowed, he had to do this right the first time, he had no clue if he was going to be able to reverse time again. "Can we talk down here, Matthew? I know you don't want to jump."

"It doesn't matter what I want." A shiver went down Adam's spine. He had expected Matthew to be crying and upset, but he just sounded empty, like there was nothing he could feel any more. "It would be better if I just ended it. I've let so many people down." 

"That's not true, Matthew." That was the wrong thing to say, one of Matthew's rain soaked sneakers edged backwards. Adam cursed the clumsiness of his words and strained for something more persuasive, "Matthew, none of that was your fault." Matthew stared at him, blue eyes hopeless. "You were drugged. The person who did that to you—they're the one to blame." 

Matthew shook his head slowly, "No one believes me."

"I believe you," Adam took a careful step forward, "and so does Ronan. He loves you so much, Matthew. I— I didn't know families could love each other as much as Ronan loves you. And I know he believes you. You know he was here this morning to see you? He tried to stop by your dorm."

Matthew was trembling, first just his hands, then his whole body. He wrapped his arms around his middle. He looked so small. "You don't understand Adam, you don't—I'm in a nightmare. I'm in a nightmare and I can't get out, I can't get out and they're still out there." He was panicking now, his breaths coming in jagged bursts. 

Adam wanted to go to him, to pull him off the edge, but he was still ten feet away and Matthew was only a few inches away from falling. 

"Who's out there, Matthew?"

"The person who did this to me. They—they did something to me and they could do it again—what if they do it again?"

Adam could see the fear now, stronger than the pain, the fear of not being in control, and this was finally something he understood. He swallowed as he remembered every time his father walked into his room, every time the rage in his own chest expanded out of his control. He could never seem to banish his own fear, but maybe he could ease Matthew's.

"I can help you Matthew. We can find them. I can find them." His voice was growing stronger, more sure. "I'm going to make sure they never do this to you or anyone else ever again. But I need your help, I need you to come down and help me."

He meant it. He meant it with every bone in his body that had broken and regrown, with every inch of skin that had ever been black and blue, with every damaged nerve. He couldn't fight his own demons but he could fight Matthew's. He could manipulate time; he could save Matthew.

"Please, Matthew, I need your help."

He held his hand out. For a heartrending moment he thought Matthew wouldn't take it. Then Matthew reached out for him and Adam pulled Matthew off the ledge and into his arms. Matthew sobbed into Adam's shoulder, he was broader than Adam, but he felt so small pressed against him. Adam wound his arms around Matthew and held on. "It's going to be okay now," he murmured, and as he said it he knew he would make it true. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient, everyone! It took me a bit longer to get this chapter up than I had hoped. I work 9-5 and sometimes can't bring myself to stare at a computer screen when I get home.
> 
> I'm going to start Chapter 3 in the next few days so that should be up in a couple of weeks! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam is determined to discover what happened to Matthew and Ronan is determined to help. Sometimes finding the truth requires breaking the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see!
> 
> Funny story: so this chapter is roughly 9k, the previous chapter was roughly 8k, and the one before that 7k. Seems like a pretty good progression, right? The thing is that this is only HALF of what I have written for Chapter 3/Chaos Theory. So in the interest of updating I'm breaking from my attempt to loosely follow the LiS episodes. The good news is that I already have half of the next chapter (Chaos Theory 2.0) written! So the next update will be ready much sooner! 
> 
> Read, enjoy, comment! I'd love to hear from you guys :)

_Get Matthew to safety. Figure out who hurt him. Make sure they couldn't hurt him again._

 

A pair of security guards found them as they stumbled down the roof access stairs. Their mouths moved, but Adam didn't process a word they said, all of his energy dedicated to getting Matthew one step closer to solid ground.

 

_Get Matthew to safety. Figure out who hurt him. Make sure they couldn't hurt him again._

 

Dozens of eyes leered at them as they emerged from the dormitory. Adam's stomach lurched. It was one thing to know that eighty percent of Blackwell students boarded on campus and another thing to see every one of those students rain soaked and gaping at you. Matthew buried his face in Adam's shoulder. The gesture ignited something protective and seething in Adam. He stared back at the crowd—scorning them for being passive bystanders, for running out of the dormitory to gape rather than running up to the roof to help—until the front most boys turned their eyes uncomfortably toward their shoes. 

 

"An ambulance is on the way," the older security guard pointed toward the faculty parking lot as his partner tried to disperse the crowd. 

 

Adam guided Matthew down the steps. Their feet squished in the grass and Adam could feel water seeping through the thin soles of his sneakers. Above them the clouds parted, letting through spears of golden evening light. 

 

A hundred feet in front of them, an ambulance charged into the parking lot, sirens howling, lights reflecting off the wet asphalt. A charcoal gray BMW barreled after it and skidded to a stop across three parking spaces.

 

Ronan and Declan had never looked more similar than as they burst from the car: two sets of Niall's eyes wide with fear, two replicas of Niall's mouth twisted in dismay. Medics jogged across the grass to pry Matthew off of Adam's arm, but they only got a dozen feet away before they were shoved aside as Ronan and Declan tangled themselves around their baby brother. 

 

A sobbed trembled through the air.

 

Ronan lifted his head from where it was buried in Matthew's limp curls and his eyes, red rimmed and heartbreakingly blue, found Adam. Words clogged in Adam's throat. He wanted to tell Ronan about his promise, to promise again to use whatever means possible to find the bastard that hurt Matthew, but nothing came out of his mouth. The medics, having given up on trying to untangle the Lynch brothers, began to shuffle them toward the ambulance as one many appendaged beast.

 

Then, suddenly, the sun faded out.

 

Startled shouts erupted across the quad. "Jesus H. Christ the world  _is_  ending," Henry Cheng's voice rose above the rest.

 

Adam squinted up through a barely visible gap in the clouds then away as a glowing orange ring imprinted on his retinas. An eclipse? There wasn't a solar eclipse forecasted for months.

 

Just as quickly as the light had vanished it seeped back. What eclipse happened so quickly? All around the quad people blinked at the beams of light once again filtering through the clouds and glanced around, looking for an answer. Only Ronan stood fixedly still; he stared at Adam with a new intensity, one eyebrow lifted. Adam rubbed a hand against his temple, the pain in his head was gone but all of this was going to make his head explode anyway, he knew what Ronan was thinking: snow, eclipse, tornado—it was all related. It was getting hard to disagree. 

 

A hand touched Adam's shoulder, it belonged to the younger security guard who had his radio pressed to his ear, "Your name's Adam Parrish, right? Principal Wells wants to talk to you."

 

* * *

 

 

"You saved a life today, Mr. Parrish." Wells smiled grimly at him from the other side of his highly polished desk. "I can't say how grateful I am that you got to that roof in time." 

 

Adam was in Wells' office for the second time in the same week. He felt tired thinking of the circumstances that had brought him there each time. The Lynch brothers were having a difficult time staying alive

 

Wells leaned forward, shifting an ugly brass bird statue on his desk so he could have an unobstructed view of Adam. "I'm sure this is all overwhelming right now, but it would be extremely helpful if you could share anything you know about the situation. Is there anything Matthew said? Anything you saw?"

 

Adam replayed the conversation with Matthew in his head. Matthew had told him plenty about the situation, the problem was that Principal Wells had already heard, and dismissed, Matthew's story. It made something twist sickly in his stomach to think how differently things might have turned out if they had just listened to Matthew three days ago. 

 

"Matthew is terrified." Adam folded his hands over carved wooden knobs on the arms of his chair. "Something happened to him and no one would listen; he was drugged and no one did anything about it. Now he is terrified it's going to happen again." 

 

"Mr. Parrish," Wells said slowly, his forehead creasing, "I've already heard Mr. Lynch's account of that matter. It's not that we don't want to help him, but without evidence that anything transpired there's nothing we can do." 

 

Adam didn't say anything, but he didn't attempt to mask the incredulity in his gaze. 

 

"You do know that his brother, Declan, had his blood tested?" No, Adam didn't know that, but he wouldn't let it show. He kept his expression stony. "Well, on our request he shared the results of the toxicology test. Nothing. There wasn't any sort of drug detected in Matthew's system the day after the alleged attack. We have no evidence to suggest that anything happened other than this: Matthew Lynch got inebriated, beat up a classmate and blacked out only to wake up in his dorm room with a feeling of acute paranoia. So unless you have witnessed some event I should be made aware of," Wells raised his hands helplessly, "I have no choice but to assume all of this is the symptom of a boy who is in need of psychiatric help."

 

It was the type of sound, empirical evidence that Adam was used to relying on. He should believe it; he should be convinced. He wasn't. Adam's hands tightened around the carved ends of the arms of his chair until the ridges in the wood pressed painfully into his palms. Wells was morphing in front of him, his shoulders sagging, his head drooping, Adam could see the burden of 'correct procedure' and 'necessary rules' weighing him down. He could see how the very values that Wells strove to instill in his 'Blackwell boys' were rendering him useless. 

 

Sometimes the truth was beyond the scope of simple detection. Sometimes it took a little faith that there was something deeper that needed to be unearthed. Matthew needed people willing to put in that bare minimum of faith if he was going to find justice. Adam took in Wells' apologetic grimace and knew he wasn't going to get that here. 

 

Adam exhaled through his nose. He couldn't lose his temper. Not in front of Wells. Not when he needed this school so badly he was exhausting himself with 20 hours of extra work a week to pay for his room and board **.**  He slowly counted backwards in his head.

 

_Ten_

 

_Nine_

 

_Eight_

 

_Seven_

 

 _Six_  

 

"It's my fault, it's all my fault!" Colin Greenmantle burst into the room, his tie askew and his hair looking like he had tried to tear it out. He was panting as if he'd just sprinted across campus. Adam hadn't thought it was possible for sleek, smarmy Greenmantle to look so miserable. 

 

"Colin!" Wells was clearly alarmed. "I'm in the middle of a conversation with Mr. Parrish, if you could wait outside—"

 

"Don't you hear what I'm saying!" Greenmantle spit. He clamped onto the back of Adam's chair to steady himself. Adam had to twist to look up at his flushed face. "I'm the one who made Matthew jump!"

 

"You don't mean that, Colin!"

 

"I spoke with Matthew just before he went up to that roof," Greenmantle half-sobbed. "I knew he was having a hard time and I was trying to help—give him a pep talk about getting past the bad times—but I was a fool!" He shuddered and it shook Adam's entire chair. "I should have known. I should have seen the signs. I just never thought he would do something so drastic!" 

 

Even Greenmantle's distress was perfectly calculated to make him the center of attention. Adam held in a sigh as Wells quickly moved to assure Greenmantle that his "pep talk" had not been the source of Matthew's distress. 

 

Adam's gaze wandered to the large Blackwell crest on the wall behind Principal Wells' desk. A motto was etched along the bottom of the crest. It was in Latin, Adam knew, although he had never bothered to translate it. Adam blinked at it as a thought occurred to him. Maybe the administration wouldn't do anything about the root of Matthew's distress, but there was at least one other bully he could stop.

 

"We can continue this conversation in a moment, Colin, if you could just wait outside—" 

 

"Actually," Adam interrupted, "do you mind if he stays?" He looked sideways up at Greenmantle. "He can back up something I witnessed this afternoon." 

 

* * *

 

 

So that was that. A few minutes of explanation and Wells assured Adam that Whelk would be put on temporary suspension while they investigated his claims. 

 

Frustration gnawed at Adam; the real problem had not been addressed, but then again he was accustomed to handling things himself. At least another problem was being taken care of in the meantime. He almost felt bad that his story had exposed Greenmantle's failure to report Whelk, but Greenmantle got off with a slap on the wrist. Between his show of distress and the prestige he brought Blackwell's photography program he was sure Greenmantle—short of pushing Matthew off the roof—could do no wrong in Wells' eyes.

 

Adam needed to sleep. He felt his brain whining like a faulty engine belt as it struggled to process everything he had experienced in the span of a day. But it was only six and he couldn’t afford to sleep when he had a paper on Dutch imperialism due Monday and an assignment on Robert Mapplethorpe due Tuesday. So, dressed in dry clothes, brain and body aching, he sat down with a notebook and a stack of library books to get to work. 

 

* * *

 

  

Ping. 

 

Ping. 

 

Adam wrinkled his nose. Everything was dark and warm, but his neck hurt and he could feel his arms prickling with blood deprivation. 

 

What was he doing? He had the overwhelming feeling that he was supposed to be doing something...

 

Ping. 

 

Sleeping. He was asleep. He wasn't supposed to be asleep. The surface under his face was flat and unforgiving, it smelled like dust and old paper. 

 

Ping. 

  


CRACK.

  

Adam's eyes flew open to see a web of cracks in his window, fanning out from a golf ball sized indentation in the outer pane of glass. He was suddenly very awake. He bolted up from his desk chair, pinched joints protesting, face tingling from being pressed into a book. Outside his window, through the gap between the hedges, he could see a shadow standing on the lawn. Broad shoulders; shaved head; familiar, planted stance. Adam threw open the window.

 

"Ronan?"

 

"Get the fuck out here, Parrish. I have something to show you." His voice sounded thick.

 

"You broke my window."

 

"Are you magic or what? Fix it and get your ass out here." 

 

Adam wondered if Ronan realized that he was the only person he would risk sneaking out of his dorm room for. Hell, he was the only person he would be awake for right now. 

 

He shook sleep off his shoulders and tentatively raised his hand. He didn't feel stretched thin the way he had earlier, but he probably wouldn't know what losing his power would feel like anyway. He took breath and willed time to move backwards. 

 

It was surprisingly easy again. It didn't even hurt. Whatever invisible battery resided in his brain must have recharged. 

 

Ping. Ronan was throwing pebbles at the window again. 

 

"Alright, alright, Lynch. I'm coming," he hissed, throwing the window open. 

 

He pulled on a worn pair of tennis shoes, grabbed his shoulder bag, and carefully crept out of his dorm.

 

He found Ronan on the lawn, something shinny and metallic in one hand and a fist sized stone in the other. 

 

"How'd you know it was me?" His voice still sounded odd. His words less clipped than usual but still full of latent venom. 

 

"You cracked my window. I had to rewind to fix it."

 

Ronan glanced down at the stone in his hand and hastily dropped it. The movement made light glint off the aluminum can in his other hand. Adam recognized the outline of the logo.

 

"Have you been drinking?" 

 

"Yes." He took a swig from the can as if Adam had just helpfully reminded him it was there. 

 

"Ronan." 

 

"Don't say my name like that."

 

Adam sighed. He was rethinking his decision to exclude Ronan from the list of people he wouldn't sneak out for. Maybe he could get him quietly into his dorm.

 

"They wouldn't let me stay with him." His voice was hardly more than a whisper, and so broken that it made Adam pause. " _One guest per night, it’s just hospital policy, hon. Your brother will take good care of him,_ " he sneered in a pinched voice that Adam assumed had originally belonged to one of Matthew's nurses. 

 

So that explained Ronan's presence outside his window. And the drinking. 

 

Ronan took another swig of his beer then threw the can to the ground and crushed it with his boot. "Fuck them anyways." 

 

Adam twisted his fingers around the strap of his bag. He felt like he should probably express his sympathy, or condolences, or something, but he didn't think Ronan wanted that, and he wouldn't know how to even if Ronan did. So instead he changed the subject, "What did you want to show me?" 

 

"Right," Ronan dug for something in his pocket, displacing some change that fell to the grass unnoticed. "Declan's ol' chums with one of the Blackwell security guards. The guy stopped by to offer his regards and left one set of keys lighter for his troubles."

 

Adam blinked at the ring bristling with brass and silver keys that Ronan held up for him to examine. He really shouldn't be surprised that Ronan would dare to pickpocket a security guard. 

 

"Matthew told me about the promise you made—that you're going to track down the bastard that did this to him," he growled even as his voice cracked. "I'm here to help." 

 

"You think whoever did this is hiding in a broom closet in Blackwell?"

 

"I think someone here is hiding something, and I think perusing the school records might give us a place to start." 

 

He held out the key ring and after a momentary pause Adam took it. He couldn't deny there were people here he wanted to know more about.

 

"Are you sure we should be doing this tonight?" He squinted at Ronan, he was upright but there was still a slight slur to his speech. "I don't want to jeopardize our chance to get more information if you're going to be drunk and reckless."

 

"Do you really think anything could make me more reckless than I already am on a daily basis? C'mon I'm not that drunk." As if to prove his point he deftly swiped the keys back from Adam. "Besides, if you don't want to help I'm going to do it myself, and I'm a lot less likely to get arrested for trespassing if I have someone who can rewind time with me." 

 

Any other day Adam might tell Ronan to take his chances, that if he wanted to drunkenly break and enter he would have to live with the consequences, but not when he could feel the desperation under his words. Not when Adam himself was jittery with the promise he had made Matthew. He said he was going to make things right and it would be foolish to think he could figure out what happened to Matthew without some risk. 

 

"Okay, we'll start with the Principal's office." 

 

"Atta' boy, Parrish."

 

* * *

 

 

They crept across the dark campus, dodging around the pools of light left by lamp posts that were spaced too far apart to truly illuminate the campus. What time was it? Adam hadn't checked the time before running out of his room, and the darkness felt timeless.

 

Principal Well's office was on the first floor of the humanities building. They had rounded the corner toward the front entrance when voices drifted toward them. Adam reached out instinctively, snagging Ronan's elbow and dragging him behind a bush.

 

"Wha—" Adam slapped a hand over Ronan's mouth. Ronan stuck his tongue out and Adam pulled it back to wipe his palm against his pants. He ignored Ronan's pleased look in favor of peering around the bush at the two figures bathed in light on the steps of the humanities building. 

 

"I really don't know how to thank you for helping me build my portfolio, Professor Greenmantle." 

 

"Of course, there's nothing I love more than cultivating young talent." Adam couldn't see Greenmantle's face from where he crouched, but he could hear the way he basked in Henry Cheng's adoration. He was, of course, already recovered from his earlier emotional trauma. If Colin Greenmantle was one thing it was not genuine.

 

"Just between you and me, any word on the Every Day Hero's Contest?" Henry was practically simpering with hopefulness.

 

"Now Henry, you know I can't divulge anything about the contest. Besides I'm still waiting on a few final entries." Adam winced, his own picture still in the bag slung over his shoulder.

 

"But the gallery showing in San Francisco is next week!"

 

"Yes, and the plane tickets are already booked. Don't you worry about that."

 

"You know," Henry shifted his posture subtly, one hip shifting to the side, leaning just perceptibly closer to Greenmantle. "My mother owns a very nice hotel in 'Frisco. Presidential suites, in-room hot tubs... I can pull some strings."

 

"Now, Henry, you know I don't accept bribes." Greenmantle said in a tone that suggested he certainly did.

 

Emboldened,  Henry tilted himself toward Greenmantle, cocking his head with a look of winning, false innocence, "A whole weekend away from Arcadia Bay—the  _whole_  time won't be spent at lectures and gallery showings, will it?"

 

"I expect not."

 

"That leaves a lot of free time for you and  _whomever_  you choose." 

 

Adam's brow furrowed. Henry wasn't—

 

Henry reached forward to stroke his knuckles down the lapel of Greenmantle's blazer.

 

Adam's mouth dropped open. Next to him Ronan stifled a laugh in the crook of his elbow.  _Henry?_  Adam thought—well he had always assumed Henry was straight. But no, that wasn't the point. Adam of all people appreciated the career-starting ramifications of having a photo displayed at one of San Francisco’s most popular galleries, but nothing was worth flirting with Colin Greenmantle for. 

 

Greenmantle chuckled, "Need I remind you I am happily married, Henry?" He flashed the band on his left hand. "I'm afraid you're just going to have to take your chances like the rest of the class." 

 

Henry was immediately put out, “Well—I—if," he cast around for words with the typical Henry Cheng lack of grace, "if you don't pick my photo I'm going to tell the principal you asked me for sexual favors in return for the win. Then where will you be?" 

 

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Cheng?" Greenmantle's voice was abruptly frigid. Warmth seeped out of the air in the wake of his disdain.

 

"No, I was— it was a joke." Henry Cheng was silly, but he wasn't an idiot. He laughed more enthusiastically than necessary. 

 

"I suggest you reevaluate which jokes are appropriate to share with your professors." 

 

"Oh, yeah, totally. Sorry, Professor. The hotel offer still stands though." Henry back peddled, quickly reverting to his more successful tactic. "I'll see you on Monday,  _Colin_."

 

"It's Professor Greenmantle." Clearly, Greenmantle would not be so easily flattered again. 

 

"Of course,  _professor_ ," Henry rolled the word off his tongue, utterly oblivious to the fact that his attempt at saving his ass was going terribly. He retreated down the steps with a swing to his slim hips.

 

Greenmantle watched him go with a thoughtful expression before sauntering in the other direction. 

 

"See, this is what I was talking about, man,  _secrets_." Ronan hissed in Adam's ear, making him jump.

 

"I'm pretty sure no one kidnapped Noah to win the Every Day Heroes Contest."  

 

"Whatever, man." Ronan shrugged him off looking irritated. "We have work to do." 

 

* * *

  


"I'm eighteen, I could get in real trouble for this." Adam chewed on his left thumb nail and squinted into the darkness, searching for a sign of life. Standing in the light while Ronan tried to find the right key for the humanities building was making him skittish. 

 

"Don't worry about it. I made some very charitable donations to Arcadia Bay's finest. They won't dare arrest us."

 

"Ronan!"

 

"Nah, I didn't, but I'm flattered that you think I'm that hardcore."  Finally, a key twisted in the lock. Ronan swung the door open and gestured toward the building's shadowy interior. "After you, you hardened criminal." 

 

Adam made sure Ronan could see his eye roll as he walked past him. 

 

It turned out a purloined set of keys could only get them so far. Ronan tried every key in the lock to Principal Wells' office twice before Adam wrestled the keys away and tried them himself, understandably skeptical of Ronan's abilities when he smelled like he'd bathed in ethanol. Key after key stuck in the lock. Adam was ready to hurl the key ring across the room. He dropped his head against the door, gritting his teeth against the urge to bash his skull into it. Ronan's certainty had infected him; if they could just get into the principal's office there would be something, some clue that would help them know where to start.

 

"Suspicious as fuck," Ronan spat. "Security should have keys to the principal's office, what is this bastard hiding?" There was a squeak of Ronan's boots on the slick wood, and when Adam opened his eyes Ronan was on his knees in front of the door handle.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Picking the lock."

 

Adam blinked at him, considering how likely it was Ronan actually knew how to pick a lock (unlikely) and how likely it was that Ronan would have suggested lock picking as a reasonable plan of attack if he were sober (likely). With a sigh Adam pushed away from the wall. "Okay... I'll see if I can find an alternate method." 

 

"Don't doubt me, Parrish."

 

"Have you ever picked a lock before?" He watched as Ronan jabbed two straightened out paper clips into the key hole. 

 

"How hard could it be?"

 

Adam was mid eye roll when he noticed a fire extinguisher on the far wall. He crossed the room to retrieve it. The shiny red canister came out of the wall bracket easily and Adam hefted it experimentally. It was heavier than he had expected, but easy to lift. It should do. 

 

"Heads up." 

 

Ronan's eyes lit up when he saw Adam cross the room with his find. "Aw hell yes." He scuttled backwards on his knees, nearly banging the back of his head on the secretary's desk.

 

The door handle was a tasteful curl of gleaming brass. Conveniently, for Adam's purposes, it was a lever handle. Adam sucked in a breath and brought the canister down on the door handle. Metal buckled with a satisfying crunch. Adam lifted the fire extinguisher and brought it down again. The door quaked. A long, ugly scar marred the two feet of wood above the door handle. On the third swing Adam felt the mechanism in the lock give. He stepped back. The door knob was destroyed, the wood around it splinted and scarred, and when he kicked at the bottom of the door it swung inward.

 

God, that had felt good. 

 

"Damn, Parrish," Ronan was on his feet by the secretary's desk. The glint in his eyes was dangerous, the sloppy tilt to his mouth approving and inviting. Something in Adam's chest squeezed tight.

 

He quickly busied himself with putting the fire extinguisher back. Breaking down the door had made his face uncomfortably warm."Don't get too excited, you're not going to remember this when I rewind." 

 

"Aw man, can we at least take a picture?" 

 

A smile tugged at Adam's lips. He schooled his expression before he turned around. "I suppose." 

 

They crouched in front of the wrecked door. Ronan nearly overbalanced and had to lean his shoulder into Adam's to stay upright. He threw up a pair of middle fingers for the camera anyways. 

 

"Say felony," Adam held his camera out. 

 

"Very funny, Parrish."

 

The flash left bright spots on their vision. Adam shoved the camera and the new photo into his bag and straightened up.

 

"You may erase this from my memory now, oh wizard." 

 

Adam snorted and stepped into the dark office, shutting the door (as much as the busted handle would allow) behind him.

 

He lifted his hand. 

 

From the dark interior of the office it was difficult to tell what was happening outside the door. There was a series of loud noises, the sound of the fire extinguisher hitting the door played backwards. Adam dropped his hand as soon as the sound stopped, hoping to catch Ronan while he was attempting to pick the lock. There was a muffled clicking from the other side of the door as Adam deftly turned the lock from the inside and pulled the door open.

 

Ronan blinked up at him from his knees. He quickly glanced over his shoulder then back at Adam, shock painting his features before his mouth twisted in devilish delight. "Dude, I don't know how the fuck you did that but it was fucking awesome."

 

"Ask me when I'm in a good mood," Adam was surprised by the lilt in his own voice, "maybe I'll tell you." This seemed dangerous. He was one poor decision away from playing with fire. He swallowed. "Let's do this quick. No guarantee I can save us if someone finds us in here." 

 

"Yes, sir."

 

They got to work, locking the door, pulling down the heavy blinds, turning on the office's scattered lamps. "Still a pretentious fuck, I see." Ronan muttered, looking with disgust at an admittedly egregious portrait of Wells on the wall **.**

 

"You can enjoy the art later," Adam hissed, "See if you can get into his email. I'll check the records."

 

He approached the gleaming oak cabinet that he had watched Wells pull a bulging file from as he told him about seeing Kavinsky with a gun and pulled open the middle drawer. Labeled pressboard files neatly filled the drawer sorted by lettered section dividers—a false promise that the students they represented could be as easily organized and demarcated. Adam opened drawers until he found the Ks. 

 

Kavinsky's file was ten times the size of any other file. While most other files seemed to have three to four pieces of paper, his was bulging with dozens of pages. 

 

Adam propped the file on the open drawer and opened it. There was a single page affixed to the left side of the file. Adam read that first.

 

_Joseph Kavinsky_

 

_Joseph has proved a troubling addition to Blackwell's legacy. He has maintained indisputably acceptable grades and shows a natural talent for the sciences, particularly chemistry. However his attitude towards staff and faculty is often dismissive or abrasive, leading to a series of minor disciplinary measures. More disturbing however is the frequency of with which Joseph has been accused of various misdemeanors and even felonies (see attached reports). In every case no evidence has been found to support such accusations, leaving Blackwell no choice but to trust in Mr. Kavinsky's innocence. The Blackwell Police Department has declined to make a more thorough investigation._

 

Aside from a handful of report cards, the stack of papers attached to the right of the file was were the reports Wells described, detailed accounts of teachers and students reporting on Kavinsky on everything from drug dealing to street racing to creating explosives. Adam's report of seeing Kavinsky with a gun sat on top. Each report ended the same way: no evidence found, investigation inconclusive. The old rumor about Kavinsky paying off the police surfaced in Adam's brain. Whatever else was happening in Arcadia Bay there was at least one instance of corruption. 

 

Adam flipped through the reports looking for anything that would suggest he had wanted to hurt Matthew. He didn't find much. Joseph Kavinsky was unstable, prone to violence, most likely selling drugs and running a street racing ring, but there was nothing that suggested direct involvement in what happened to Matthew. He shoved the file back into its place in frustration, there was no way Kavinsky wasn't culpable in this.

 

"Parrish," Ronan called from behind the computer, "you'll never fucking guess Wells' password." 

 

"1234?"

 

"Password. His password is Password. Why do they trust this man to run a school?" 

 

Adam hummed distractedly, running his fingers along the lip of one of the drawers. He wasn't sure where to look next. He had really hoped that Kavinsky's file would have revealed something useful. He glanced through the L section for Matthew's file but it was missing, Wells had probably taken it out to record the day's events.

 

"Hey, is Matthew's file over there?"

 

"Yup, don't get too excited though. I already read it, nothing I couldn't have told you." 

 

Adam chewed the inside of his cheek, casting about for another plan of attack. On a whim, he opened up the beginning of the alphabet. They were in the principal's office to look for answers about Matthew, not Noah, but he needed another brainwave before he could figure out where else he might find something about Matthew. Besides they were never going to have access to this information again, and he was curious. Noah's file wasn't there. 

 

He pulled open other drawers, finding the end of the alphabet, faculty files, and eventually a drawer full of files marked with things like: transferred, expelled, and in one case deceased. Adam was going to search the "C"s when another name caught his eye. He glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder. Ronan was still glaring at the computer.

 

Ronan's file was much smaller than Kavinsky's, just a brief write up about Ronan's abysmal grades, bad attitude, talent for music, and a mention of the termination of his Blackwell attendance at the end of his junior year due to the aforementioned grades and lack of understanding that attending Blackwell was a privileged not an obligation.

 

So that was it. Adam had wondered what Ronan had done to get expelled. He had imagined extravagant acts of vandalism or a school yard fight gone too far, but in reality Ronan had simply tossed away the opportunity Adam had worked so hard for. Adam paused, trying to determine if it bothered him. It might have bothered him yesterday, he thought, before he had seen Ronan's lost gaze as he ran across the grass to Matthew. Now all he could think was that Ronan's choices were his own, and just because he had been handed Blackwell on a platter didn't mean the rest of his life was handed to him.

 

Adam quickly slipped the file back into place and continued his search. Czerny, Czerny—He stopped, his fingers hovering over another file. Curiosity ate away at his will power. He quickly removed the file from the drawer, telling himself he was just trying to determine if the boy could be somehow involved in Noah's disappearance.  

 

Richard Campbell Gansey III's record might as well have been gilded and diamond encrusted. 

 

_Mr. Gansey is the epitome of what we try to cultivate in a Blackwell gentleman..._

 

_Brilliant scholar, dedicated leader..._

 

_...wonderful contributions to class discussions and earnest desire to assist struggling students..._

 

_...with a heavy heart that we have been informed Mr. Gansey will be transferring at the end of his junior year..._

 

He seemed an unlikely friend for an angry, reckless, high school dropout. What had Ronan liked about him? 

 

He replaced Gansey's file and finally found Noah Czerny's. Noah seemed as unremarkable as student as Gansey was remarkable or Ronan was abysmal. There were a bare three lines:

 

_Mr. Czerny has satisfactorily passed all academic benchmarks. His teachers say he is often distracted in class, but are pleased by his desire to help in the classroom and interest in teaching. He has been accepted into the aspiring educator mentorship program as a Teacher's Assistant for Barrington Whelk._

 

And below that a single sentence. 

 

_Per the attached memo from the Arcadia Bay Police Department, the missing persons case for Noah Czerny has been closed._

 

Adam's eyes kept returning to Whelk's name. It felt significant to find the name of the man he had just gotten suspended in Noah's file. Adam could feel the engine in his mind ticking into gear, trying to find enough traction to really get going. As far as Adam knew Matthew had no connection to Whelk other than taking Latin. Whelk must have replaced Noah with his current T.A., Henry Cheng. Had Whelk taken out his anger issues on Noah? Had he only been mean to Matthew because he was Noah's friend's brother? Or was Adam looking for a connection that wasn't there? Adam sighed in frustration, but he found Whelk's file in the faculty records anyway.  

 

Adam tucked the file under his arm and wandered toward Wells' desk. Ronan was reclined in his huge leather desk chair clicking through his Outlook. "Have you found anything?" 

 

"Just an email from the nurse to all "relevant faculty and staff" concerned about Matthew's health a few days ago. Fucking effective system they got in place." 

 

"Anything on Barrington Whelk?" 

 

"Professor Whelk? I haven't checked, why?" The furrow in his brow made Adam wonder how much Matthew had told him about that afternoon. 

 

"Noah was his T.A., right?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Did he ever say anything about him?" 

 

"No? I mean he was just starting to help him plan lessons for this year when he disappeared. I don't know why he would voluntarily give up two weeks of summer to do school stuff, especially with that prick."

 

As he spoke he typed "Whelk" into the search bar of Wells' Outlook and scrolled through the backlog of faculty emails that came up.  

 

"Wait, open that one." Adam pointed to an email entitled Concerns Re: Mentorship Program from Jonah Milo. 

 

Ronan clicked to open it. It was hardly a few lines long. 

 

_Dear Ray,_

 

_If you have time in the next few days I would like a private meeting to discuss my concerns regarding Barrington Whelk's participation in the Emerging Educators mentorship program. I have been witness to multiple incidents that I believe should be brought to your attention._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Jonah_

 

Adam stared at Whelks name in the search function's glaring yellow highlighter. What were these "incidents" Milo had witnessed. Had the meeting with Wells ever happened? There were only more questions here, no answers. 

 

"What the fuck does that mean?" Ronan was glaring at the computer screen like he might put his fist through it if it didn't elaborate. He turned to Adam with eyebrows raised, "That his file?" 

 

Adam handed it over, mind still trying to put something together. 

 

Ronan flipped open the file with little regard for its contents, pages of test scores and grade averages fell onto the desk. Adam picked up a page of contact info as Ronan read from the page on the left side of the file, "Barrington Whelk's performance has been satisfactory since being instated as Blackwell's Latin professor in 2013. Fucking useless," Ronan growled. "It's just that, some bullshit test scores from his students, and the resume he submitted when he applied for the position." Neither of them pointed out the obvious:  _whatever Milo had been concerned about didn't make it in the file._

 

"Whatever. I'm getting the fuck out of here," Ronan said, "this office gives me the creeps."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Adam peered out the sliver of window next to the door of the humanities building, trying to determine if their exit would be noticed. Next to him Ronan attacked a framed picture of the debate team with a sharpie. He was buzzing with destructive energy and lacked the focus to do anything more subtle than draw angry black slashes through each team member's face. Adam didn't generally condone destruction of property, but vandalism was preferable to arson. Breaking into Blackwell seemed to have set off a chemical reaction in Ronan. Better to let the energy out little by little than in one massive and detectable explosion. 

 

"Okay, I think it's clear." 

 

Ronan scribbled the words "cast down your false idols" on the glass and pocketed the pen. "Let's get the fuck out of here." 

 

Ronan quickly locked the door behind them, and they dashed down the illuminated front steps and dodged through the pockets of darkness. Adam made to run left toward the faculty parking lot where he could make out the silhouette of the BMW, but Ronan's hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him right. 

 

"Where are we going?" Adam hissed, letting Ronan drag him. 

 

"For a swim." 

 

"What!?" 

 

"Well, I was going to suggest tagging the principal's house, but I didn't think you would be into that so I decided to settle for a clandestine midnight swim." 

 

"How considerate of you." 

 

Ronan dragged them around the side of the science building toward the gym containing Blackwell's Olympic sized indoor pool.

 

"C'mon, Parrish, we deserve to have some fun." The bitterness in his voice seemed better suited to destruction than fun, but with Ronan maybe they were one and the same. "It's that or I'm going to do donuts in the quad, and I'm way more likely to get caught doing that."

 

Adam pulled his arm out of Ronan's grasp. The place where his palm had pressed tingled in the chill air. "Fine, fine, let's go for a swim." 

 

"Atta' boy, Parrish."

 

They ducked their heads and sprinted the rest of the way to the gym.

 

 

Boys changed in front of each other all the time. No big deal. The locker room they had just walked through was a testament to that. So why did it feel like a very big deal as Adam pulled his t-shirt over his head and let it fall to the pool deck? 

 

Ronan was already down to a pair of black boxer briefs, his toes curling against the cold concrete. For the first time Adam had an unobstructed view of the black ink that snaked up from his waist to twist along his shoulder blades. He was gripped by the foolish urge to reach out and trace his fingers along the black tendrils. He looked away, quickly pushing down his jeans and kicking them off. 

 

There was a splash, water sloshed onto the pool deck, and Ronan's distorted outline skimmed the bottom of the pool. His fair skin glowed eerily, illuminated by the underwater lights.

 

 _Get out of your head, Parrish._  It was Ronan's voice in his mind.  _I'm your best friend. This isn't weird_.

 

Adam pushed down the fluttering feeling in his chest and with a running start jumped into the pool. 

 

He plunged underwater and broke the surface with a gasp, only to have his mouth fill with water again. He spluttered, spitting out chlorinated water as Ronan's laughter bounced off the high, concrete roof. 

 

"C'mon, let's see what ya got, Parrish." 

 

Adam didn't need another invitation. He wheeled in Ronan's direction, arm swiping across the surface of the pool to send a wave of water in front of him. 

 

The battle that ensued was ruthless. It ended with Ronan's hands on Adam's shoulders forcing him under and Adam's hand jabbing at a particularly sensitive part of Ronan's ribs.

 

"Truce, truce," Ronan panted when Adam surfaced. He was guarding his ribs and glaring at Adam, daring him to say something about the piercing shriek Adam had been able to hear even underwater. 

 

Adam raised his hands in surrender, biting his cheek to keep from looking amused. Something must have shown on his face anyway, because Ronan snorted and pushed away from him to float on his back. Adam treaded water for a moment longer before mirroring Ronan's position: on his back, arms and legs spread. He sank immediately. Adam wasn't an experienced swimmer, but he had never thought floating would be hard. He tried again, but as soon as they had broken the surface of the water his hips sunk back down, pulling the rest of his body with them. 

 

"Don't worry about your legs." Adam jumped; he hadn't noticed Ronan moving next to him. "They can dangle. Just keep your chest and your hips up." he paused, chewing his bottom lip, "May I?" His cheeks, previously pallid in the watery green light of the pool were slightly pink. 

 

Adam nodded. 

 

Ronan's hand carefully splayed over Adam's lower back, warm even in the pleasant water. He pushed up, guiding Adam back into a horizontal position. Adam exhaled slowly, willing his body not to do anything strange and stared up at the whispers of light dancing on the dark beams above them. 

 

"Take a deep breath," Ronan ordered. "It should help." 

 

It did. Ronan pulled back and Adam was still floating. Ronan returned to his own back and they floated in silence. 

 

Ronan spoke first, "Noah would get a kick out of this."

 

"And Gansey?" Adam's stomach still curled unpleasantly whenever Ronan talked about Noah—Noah his friend not Noah the lost boy, Noah the subject of their investigation. Adam was still haunted by the boy's pale, friendly eyes. And if he was being completely honest, something about Gansey had been poking at the back of his mind. He kept going back to that photo: Gansey's perfect hair, his dimples, his arm slung carelessly around Ronan. 

 

"Eh, he'd have a bitch fit about trespassing and violation of trust, but he'd have fun once he got here. He isn't always a grandpa."

 

Ronan backstroked to the edge of the pool and Adam followed less gracefully. They rested against the side of the pool. With damp finger Ronan dripped letters onto the cement in front of them. 

 

"We're you and him—" Adam trailed off, watching a droplet of water drip off Ronan's finger to finish the top arm of a 'K', "you know..." he finished lamely. He'd never talked to someone about this sort of thing, never had someone to talk about it with. He hadn't realized how awkward it could be. 

 

"Hmm?" Ronan hummed, putting the final touches on the 'L' in his masterpiece: 'FUCKWELL'. Adam was tempted to tell him to forget he had said anything, but now that he had started he suspected Ronan wouldn't let him stop. 

 

"Were you guys a thing?"

 

"What thing? Is this some fucking spy code? Why are you being so cryptic?" 

 

Adam groaned, wishing Ronan wouldn't make him spell it out, "Did you like him?"

 

Ronan froze. A drop of water fell from his finger, adding an accent above the 'U.'

 

Adam shouldn't have asked. He should have waited for one of those teary heartfelt moments that happened in sitcoms and sappy Facebook posts. But he had said it. Now Ronan knew that he knew and there was no way to make Ronan unknow that he knew. Well, other than reversing time, but that felt callus in this situation.

 

There was a long moment where Ronan stared at him with unfathomable eyes. Adam was on the verge of telling him to forget the whole thing when Ronan spoke. 

 

"No, not that way." 

 

Simple. Concise. Not awkward. It shouldn't have loosened something in Adam's chest, but it did. 

 

"You know, I'm starting to think everything is related," Adam said because he didn't know what else to say. "Noah's disappearance and what happened to Matthew. Maybe it sounds crazy, but what if the same person who hurt Matthew ran Noah out of town?" 

 

"Your power too, and the weird weather, they're part of it too." 

 

Adam blinked at him, "How could either of those be related?" 

 

Ronan rubbed a hand over his head, water droplets stuck to the short hair. "Maybe it's self-centered but I've been getting this feeling that you were sent back to Arcadia Bay to help me." 

 

"By God?" Adam tried to keep any skepticism out of his voice. He had never shared Ronan's beliefs, but lately he was feeling a lot less skeptical about belief in general. 

 

Ronan folded his arms on the cement lip of the pool and rested his chin on them. "You know, Gansey used to seek out weird shit—odd phenomena," he amended, "and anytime things lined up too neatly or fit to well he would say 'Coincidence?'" he made his voice low to mimic Gansey's, "but, like, to point out that it couldn't be a coincidence, you know?" His eyes found Adam's. "It made me see how, on some cosmic level, so much weird shit is connected. So, Noah disappears, Matthew is attacked, and Arcadia Bay is in peril and you return as some super hero?  _Coincidence?_ "

 

Adam shifted uncomfortably. When Ronan said it like that it seemed obvious. But if it was his job to fix all of this he was already coming up short. He sighed, he had to tell Ronan the truth about saving Matthew. 

 

"I'm not a super hero, Ronan."

 

"Don't be hum—" 

 

"My power failed." 

 

Now he had Ronan's attention. He recounted what happened that afternoon: his faulty attempts to rewind time, the pain, finally managing to make time stop all together only to lose his ability completely when he reached the roof. He spared Ronan the knowledge that in some rewound timeline Matthew had fallen.

 

As the story spilled onto the wet cement in front of him, he heard his voice turning hollow, felt himself distancing himself from the memory. 

 

"You're right," Ronan said when he was done, his gaze had become more focused and intense as Adam spoke, and Adam could feel it on his skin like a prickling burn. It felt right that Ronan should see through him and know him for the sham he was. "You're not a super hero, you're just a hero. You saved Matthew without your power." 

 

Adam started in surprise. Ronan had it wrong. Matthew had saved himself. Matthew had made the choice to walk away from the ledge, and even if Adam had been a positive catalyst he couldn't take credit for Matthew's will to live. Ronan was taking the wrong message from his cautionary tale. 

 

"What I'm trying to tell you is that we can't rely on my ability," he said through gritted teeth, "We don't know when it might give out again." 

 

"Okay, fine, so maybe we have to be more careful," Ronan's face soured like the word 'careful' was personally offensive to him. "But we are going to sniff out Matthew's attacker, we're going to find Noah, and you're going to save Arcadia Bay."

 

Irritation prickled in Adam's chest and curled his voice sarcastically, "From a tornado? I don't control the weather."  

 

Ronan wasn't taking the bait. He looked at Adam with naked trust, his face stripped bare of its practiced disdain.

 

Adam had promised too much. He had given Ronan this false hope. Now the anxiety that he wouldn't be able to come through was creeping up his throat to strangle him. 

 

"Stop thinking." A wave of water hit him from behind. "You're gonna pull a neuron or something. Just keep going, you're doing good so far." Adam couldn't stop though, he'd dug himself a hole only to realize too late it was a grave.

  


Ronan splashed him again. Adam was distracted from his thoughts by a feeling of annoyance. Ronan splashed him again. Adam couldn't think with him doing that. Ronan splashed him again. 

 

"Okay, okay, surrender." Adam turned and held his hands up as Ronan doused him again. "Ronan!"

 

"Nope, not until you stop looking constipated." 

 

Adam growled, gave into Ronan's goading, and splashed Ronan in the face. Ronan's spluttering laughter bounced off the high ceiling of the gym. Despite himself, Adam felt his spirits lift.

 

"Okay, okay, Parrish, that's enough dicking around." Ronan was grinning at him. "This heated pool is a lie, I'm pretty sure my balls have found crevasse in my body that I didn't even know about. Let's roll out."

 

They climbed out of the pool, awkwardly turning away to pretend they didn't notice the way their damp underwear clung to their skin. Adam dressed quickly and hitched his bag back over his shoulder. He spread his legs uncomfortably as he walked, soaking underwear under dry pants was an unfortunate combination. 

 

"I feel like I peed my—" Ronan was interrupted mid-sentence as the door on the far end of the pool swung open and a security guard strolled through it. "Shit."

 

Adam's flight instinct kicked in instantly. He dragged Ronan into the boy's locker room while the guard blinked at them, seemingly caught off guard to actually discover an actual break-in on her rounds. 

 

"Hey, wait! Stop where you are!" 

 

They were already dodging through the dark locker room, their tennis shoes squeaking against the smooth cement. Adam's heart was in his throat. Getting caught was not an option. It wasn't likely he'd get expelled for a breaking into the pool after hours, but losing his scholarship would be worse than expulsion. And Ronan—who knew what type of trouble he would be in with his record. Behind him Ronan crashed into something and Adam doubled back.

 

"What are you doing?" he hissed in the general direction of Ronan's breathing.

 

"Fucking tripped, what's it sound like?" 

 

Adam let out an exasperated noise. He reached blindly for Ronan, found his shoulder, and yanked him to his feet. "Let's go." 

 

There was a thin seam of light under the door that led to the main foyer of the gym. Adam honed in on it.

 

Premature relief tingled in his fingers as they closed around the knob. He yanked the door open—only to find the security guard bursting through a door on the other side of the foyer. 

 

"Hey! Stop or I'll have to call—" 

 

The rest of her exclamation was cut off as Adam slammed the door shut and forced time to go backwards. 

 

When he dropped his hand and allowed time to move forward again he was still by the door and Ronan was racing toward him. 

 

"Don't open it. She went around the other way." 

 

They needed to find an way out of this, and quickly. He should have reversed time the moment the guard spotted them by the pool, but his instincts had kicked in and now he wasn't sure he could go back that far. There had to be something. Some way he could get them out of this. His mind was blank. 

 

"Fuck," he didn't cuss often, it added an appropriate level of gravity to their situation. 

 

"We're not going to get caught." Ronan's voice was steady in the darkness as his fingers curled around Adam's wrist. "Come with me." Ronan guided them back through the maze of lockers at a jog. Adam strained to hear if the guard's footsteps were approaching across the foyer, but all he could hear was the pounding of his heart and Ronan's ragged breaths. 

 

"Here," Ronan pulled him to the right suddenly. In the darkness, Adam was just able to tell that they had turned into the row of bathroom stalls. "In here." Ronan held open one of the stalls.

 

The locker room door opened, the whine of the hinges echoing ominously off the lockers.  

 

"Alright boys, if you're in here you might as well come out." 

 

Ronan shuffled past Adam in the small space and stepped lithely onto the toilet seat, one foot on either side of the bowl. He gestured for Adam to do the same.

 

It was a tight fit—feet turned at awkward angles, elbows jamming into ribs, heads knocking together. It was too late for one of them to switch stalls so they held their breaths and prayed. 

 

Adam's fingers clung desperately to the smooth metal of the stall. Ronan's chest was pressed against his back, Ronan's arm was around his waist, Ronan's lips were a millimeter from his deaf ear. He couldn't hear Ronan breath, but each exhale played over his skin. 

 

Adam's chest felt like it was packed with explosives and someone had just put fire to the fuse. 

 

Outside, in the locker room, boots squeaked on concrete, but Adam was having trouble focusing on anything but the heat seeping through his shirt where Ronan held him. 

 

Adam wasn't used to being touched. 

 

He was being ridiculous, the adrenaline of evading capture was messing with his head. This wasn't any different than Matthew's grip on his arm as they had stumbled down from the roof. It was necessary contact. Touch that filled a clearly defined purpose. Matthew had needed something stable to hold onto. Ronan needed not to fall off their precarious roost. Necessary. Reasonable. Nothing more. Except Adam wasn't sure there was a "nothing more" when it came to Ronan any more. 

 

The fuse burned lower. 

 

He could hear the guard muttering to herself now. Light crept through the cracks in the bathroom stall, then the beam of a flashlight  illuminated the floor below them. Adam willed his pulse to pound more quietly. They beam of light swept away then back again; they were a second and an unlocked stall door from being discovered. Ronan's arm tightened around his waist.

 

Then mercifully, impossibly, the light disappeared. 

 

The footsteps retreated toward the pool until a door opened and closed and they were once again doused in silence. 

 

They pulled apart carefully, Adam stepping gingerly onto the tile—his joints stiff from how tensely he had been holding still—and Ronan tumbling off his perch behind him, reminding Adam that he was still at least partially inebriated. 

 

They didn't breathe a word as they crept back through the maze of lockers.

 

This time the foyer was empty.

 

Adam's heart picked up again as they dashed into the chill night air. The grass beneath their shoes was damp, the sky above their heads had finally cleared and was littered with stars. The air felt alive as it filtered through Adam's lungs. Adam felt alive as he ran, feet pounding in time with Ronan's.

 

"Hey!" The security guard's shout carried over the distance they had already covered. They didn't look back.  

 

Ronan tossed his keys in a glittering arc and Adam caught them with the tips of his fingers. They fell into the car, their panting turning into breathless laughter. Adam let his hand mold to the gear shift and his foot mold to the gas pedal. The engine roared to life. They sped away from Blackwell with their hearts rocketing in their chests. And for a moment Adam felt invincible. There was nothing they couldn't do as long as they were  _RonanandAdam_ ,  _AdamandRonan._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh sorry this is so late! I'll probs go through this in the next few days and fix typos and double dashes and what not but I just wanted to get something up. How do these chapters keep getting so long?! Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Edit: Okay, I cleaned it up a bit. I might do more later because I'm sure I missed stuff. Also I meant to add a warning for mentions of potential student teacher relationships and coercion (sorry I forgot this before—I'm kicking myself). And a general and ongoing warning for Kavinsky being the absolute worst.
> 
> UPDATE 7/11: Hey everyone, so chapter 5 is only an edit away from being done, but I am going out of the country for three weeks and don't know when I'll have access to an actual computer. I will try to get it up as soon as possible but I wanted to give you all a heads up!

 

Red—the shade of a dark room lamp—soaked the corners of Adam's vision. He twisted, legs catching, arms bound to his sides. He shuddered awake and—it was only sunlight, pressing against his eyelids and filling the cluttered corners of Ronan's room with a warm glow. He breathed in, out. He was safe, for now.

 

The beams of the window frame left a lattice of shadows across the bed. Adam followed one of the shadow lines across the dips and and rises of the ruffled blankets and over Ronan's bare shoulder. Ronan was sprawled unconsciously across half of the bed, shirtless and blanketless since Adam had manage to tangle all of the blankets around himself. Adam watched Ronan's back rise and fall. His fingers twitched where they clutched the quilt, wanting to reach out and trace along the coils of Ronan's tattoo.

 

The burning in his chest was back, the slow, winding crawl of flame down a wick. What would happen when fuse burned out? The very thought was terrifying, so he rolled over, tearing his eyes away from Ronan's skin to gaze at the yellowing leaves of the sycamore outside Ronan's window. 

 

Right ear no longer muffled in the pillow, Adam realized something was buzzing. Desperate for a distraction, he extracted himself from the tangle of blankets and followed the noise. 

 

He found Ronan's phone in a pair of discarded jeans. The screen was lit up to inform him of an incoming call from "Dick Gansey." 

 

Adam's eyes darted to where Ronan was snoring softly into his pillow then back at the phone. Curiosity about Gansey still chewed at Adam's mind. His conversation with Ronan the previous night had only satisfied his most pressing questions. Ronan wouldn't mind, would he?

 

Adam slipped quietly out of the room and hit talk. 

 

"Hello?" 

 

"Jesus, Ronan, I've been calling you for hours! I know you have an aversion to _convenience_ , but I thought that at a time like this..." Adam was taken aback by the rush of words coming through the phone. He opened his mouth to say that he wasn't Ronan but Gansey continued to steamroll ahead. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be yelling at you, I'm just worried is all. How is he, Ronan? How are _you_?" 

"I'm no—"

 

"What hospital is he in? You know my mother knows some doctors in the area, I can ask her to pull some strings, get him the best accommodations."

Adam lowered himself onto the top step of the wooden staircase that led down to the foyer below, waiting for Gansey to continue, but it seemed as if the boy on the other end had finally lost steam. Adam glanced back into the bedroom to make sure Ronan was still unconscious.

 

"Actually, Ronan's asleep right now. This is... a friend. Adam." 

 

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. 

 

"Adam Parrish?" 

 

So Ronan had told Gansey about him. He was flattered. "Yes."

 

"Wow, I—lovely to meet you." A southern accent that hadn't been in evidence a moment before dripped from Gansey's words like honey. "What brings you back to Arcadia Bay?" The rambling desperation he had spoken with a moment before was completely gone now, replaced with polite interest. Adam felt oddly like he was making small talk with one of his professors. 

 

Adam cleared his throat and instinctively sat up straighter. "I go to Blackwell now," 

 

"Oh, I didn't know Blackwell had a scholarship program."

 

Such a cheerful, guileless comment—it seared Adam's pride. His fingers tightened around the phone and his jaw clenched. He wasn't embarrassed to be a scholarship student, but the fact that to this boy who had never met him could reduce him to his lack of financial means with an off-hand comment was humiliating. 

 

"Look, can I take a message for Ronan or something?" He wasn't as good as Gansey was at forcing politeness and the words came out cold.

 

There was another beat of silence.

 

"I'm afraid I misspoke. Apologies, I did not mean that as a slight. I admire the tenacity it takes to rise above one's means." Gansey was blithely unaware that he was only digging himself deeper. 

 

Adam sighed and rested his head against the banister. He'd only been awake for a few minutes; he was too tired to pretend not to be annoyed by the blunders of "well-intentioned" rich boys. Maybe that was the reason he got along with Ronan so well—Ronan was never well-intentioned.

 

"Gansey, you didn't call to talk about my 'means.'"

 

"Yes, yes of course," Gansey relented quickly. "So, how is Ronan?" Concern laced his words. This Adam could deal with. He thought of the photograph: Gansey's arm slung around Ronan, his wide smile, the honest way his eyes crinkled. If they had nothing else in common (and from the way the conversation had gone so far, Adam thought that they probably didn't) at least they both cared about Ronan. 

 

"He's doing okay, considering the circumstances. He's keeping himself busy."  _Hunting down his brother's attacker,_ he didn't add. 

 

"And how's he doing at Blackwell? I hope they're giving him some leeway." 

 

Adam's eyebrows pulled together, "Ronan's not in school."

 

"They're giving him time off? Oh good, that's more generous than I thought they would be."

 

"No, I mean Ronan doesn't go to Blackwell any more." 

 

Gansey went silent. When he spoke his voice was utterly polite and his accent rolled through the words, "When did this happen?" 

 

"He was asked not to come back for his senior year."

 

"What?!"

 

"He didn't tell you?" 

 

"He's been screening my calls, but, no, no, that can't be right. I was in Arcadia Bay until August, I would have heard if he had been expelled."

 

"Well, he was expelled." 

 

Gansey sounded exasperated, his voice returning to the heedless ramble that it had been when he first answered the phone. "But why didn't he tell me? I could have fixed this. We had already improved his attendance record and—"

 

"Gansey," Adam stopped him firmly, "no one can make Ronan go to school but himself." 

 

The silence on the other end of the phone meant Gansey did not agree. Seconds passed, neither boy certain what to say to each other. They were strangers after all, no matter how much Ronan had told them about each other.

 

Adam found his thoughts wandering back to that photograph. He tried to match Gansey's voice to his face (easy enough, he sounded like he looked). Then he tried to fit the polite southern gentleman and the frantic concerned friend together (that was harder). Finally, he tried to figure out how, of all people, Ronan had chosen this boy, who seemed to be his opposite in every way, to be his best friend (that was by far the hardest to figure out). Adam liked puzzles, but he wasn't sure these pieces were meant to fit. 

 

"I'm coming up there." Adam realized that he could hear the clacking of a keyboard on the other line. "I was going to wait and fly up Friday but I'll buy a ticket for tonight, I can be there in the morning."

 

  
_Friday_. An alarm went off in Adam's head. Arcadia Bay might not make it through Friday if Adam's visions were to be believed.

 

"No," Adam said quickly, "I think it would be better if you stayed—"  _away_ "on retainer in case Ronan needs a break. Strange things are happening here." It was a vague excuse but he couldn't think up a better one on the spot.

 

"What do you mean, _strange_?"

 

"Snow in seventy degree weather, a localized eclipse—have you seen the news?"

 

"Yeah, fascinating stuff. If I didn't love Henrietta so much I would regret leaving Arcadia bay when I did."

 

This boy, for all his polite words, was strange. "It's not all  _fascinating._  Noah's disappearance—you don't know anything about that do you? Anything you haven't told Ronan?"

 

Gansey's sigh was audible through the phone, "Is Ronan still putting up missing fliers?"

 

"You don't think he should?"

 

"No, I don't think Noah's missing. Listen, Adam, I've been in Noah's place before. I still feel guilty for the worry I put my friends and family through, but sometimes people just need to disappear. He'll come back when he's ready." 

 

Adam didn't agree, but he didn't have a leg to stand on in any argument about disappearing without a word. He'd disappeared once too. He'd been packed into the pick up truck with all his parents things and driven to a suburb of Seattle where his sick grandma had a double wide and a trailer park manager that Robert Parrish didn't owe a couple hundred dollars to after an overzealous poker bet. If Adam had had a day's notice Ronan would have been the first person he told, but by the time they were settled in Ranier Beach Robert Parrish had convinced him that Ronan wouldn't miss him anyways.

 

Guilt was a familiar sensation by now, it's acidic tendrils creeping up the back of his throat.

 

Gansey broke the silence first. His voice was soft and free of the affectations of old Virginia money, a sign, Adam was beginning to suspect, that he wasn't attempting to impress anyone. "I'm glad you're back in Arcadia Bay, Adam. I know how much Ronan missed you and I know how important you are to him. Take care of him, alright?"

 

  
_That's what I'm trying to do_ , Adam sighed. He'd never taken care of anyone but himself, but that was before—before Ronan came back into his life, before he could bend time to his will. 

 

"He's going to be okay," he heard himself say. And then, because it was early and he was tired, and because it was true, he added, "I'd stop time for him." 

 

Gansey hummed, sounding as if he agreed with the sentiment. "Let me know if you need anything."

 

"Thanks, Gansey."  

 

Adam hung up the phone and stared at the screen until it went dark.  He felt like he had learned something from the conversation but all the pieces were jostling about in his head, trying to rearrange themselves in an order that made sense. 

 

"What are you doing?" 

 

Adam jumped. Ronan was framed in his doorway, still shirtless, his eyes only half open. 

 

He quickly gathered himself, pushing the bits and pieces of the conversation to the back of his mind to hopefully sort themselves out in his subconscious. "Gansey called," he said, waving the phone in his hand. 

 

Ronan seemed unfazed by this information. "Did you tell father dearest I'm being a good boy?" 

 

"Even I would hesitate before telling a lie that egregious." 

 

Ronan looked pleased. 

 

Adam pulled himself up using the banister and squeezed past Ronan, handing him his phone as he did so. Ronan chucked the phone across the room where it bounced off the wall and landed in a laundry basket. Adam shook his head and collected his clothes off the floor. 

 

"Dude, those clothes probably smell like chlorine and ass. Take some of mine." 

 

Adam sniffed the t-shirt he was holding and reluctantly accepted Ronan's offer. 

 

Ronan's closet was a jumbled mess of casual designer jeans and faded shirts that probably cost more than Adam's nicest shoes. Once he got to the garage his coveralls should protect anything else he was wearing, but he didn't want to risk ruining a pair of jeans that looked like they cost $100. He eventually unearthed a pair of gray pants that were worn in the knees and a black tank that had a skull wearing a crown printed on the front. He realized, after he put it on, that the shirt had very little going on in the arm region, so much so that the sides hung down to expose a portion of his ribs. 

 

He turned around to find Ronan grabbing a random shirt off the floor. Ronan glanced up at him and froze. His lips parted slightly before he caught himself and he hastily pulled his shirt over his head. 

 

Adam consulted the narrow mirror mounted on the back of Ronan's door. The pants were at least an inch too long, but they tapered in places his never had. The shirt left his freckled shoulders bare—he hadn't really noticed how much lean muscle he'd gained from all the extra hours at the shop. If he squinted he could see why Ronan had looked at him like that. It made him oddly proud. Adam Parrish was wantable. 

 

He struggled not to smile smugly. "I look like I should be selling middle schoolers weed behind some dumpsters." 

 

Ronan appeared in the reflection over his shoulder, his gaze skimming up and down Adam's reflection before meeting Adam's eyes in the mirror. "You're a changed man, Parrish. Dressing like a drug dealer, breaking and entering. I am honored to be a witness to the disintegration of your morals."

 

"A catalyst, more like."

 

Something wicked and pleased flickered in Ronan's eyes. "Am I corrupting you, Parrish? Let's see, what should I infect you with next? A healthy disrespect for authority? A more colorful vocabulary? Spontaneity?"

 

Adam huffed, "I'm already spontaneous." It was true, Adam Parrish was not an essentially predictable being, but lack of resources had made him strictly regimented. He had to regulate the amount of time, money, and energy he could dedicate to every element of his life. Any unnecessary expenditure could sink the whole ship.

 

Ronan was so close that Adam could feel his heat through the thin fabric of the tank top. The look in Ronan's blue eyes was causing chaos in Adam's chest. "Let's see it then, Parrish. Shock me." 

 

He felt something fizzling in his chest. Eye contact and proximity were suddenly too much--Adam had to put space in between himself and Ronan before he did something he couldn't take back. He turned and tried to side step around Ronan, but he was distracted by how close Ronan's face was to his own. He swallowed, "Doing something on cue makes it no longer spontaneous."

 

"A predictable response. You can do better than that, Parrish," Ronan scoffed, lips pulling back to reveal a hint of challenging teeth. 

 

Adam hadn't realized how low the fuse in his chest had burnt until a second before it was gone. With the last desperate ounce of his self control he pressed their lips together. 

 

The powder keg in Adam's chest exploded. He rocked with the force of it, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his lips more desperately to Ronan's. He _liked_ Ronan Lynch. He liked _Ronan Lynch._  He felt Ronan suck in a shocked breath against his lips.

 

Ronan pulled away and Adam stumbled to regain his balance. Ronan was gaping at him; whatever he had been expecting this clearly wasn't it. Ronan's hands moved instinctively to his mouth but rerouted at the last minute and he laced them be hind his head like it was the most casual thing in the world. Adam could tell that they were shaking.  

 

"Wow, I shouldn't have underestimated you," Ronan's breathless laugh was forced.

 

Adam's heart was still racing. All he wanted was to pull Ronan close to kiss him again, deeper. But there was discomfort—no, embarrassment—knotting Ronan's shoulders. Adam steadied his breathing and tried to think rationally about what was happening: he had just realized he was falling head over ass for his best friend, and Ronan—Ronan though Adam had just kissed him to prove he was spontaneous.

 

Adam laughed. He couldn't help it, the incongruity of Ronan thinking Adam had kissed him to prove some stupid point was ridiculous. 

 

Ronan crossed his arms over his chest defensively. "Oh, that's real nice, Parrish, kiss me then laugh in my face why don't you. Asshole." 

 

"You idiot," Adam wheezed, his ribs starting to ache. He felt lightheaded and lighthearted. "Stop pouting and kiss me back."

 

Ronan's brow creased. 

 

"I like you, Ronan," Adam struggled to keep a straight face for long enough to explain, "so stop being an idiot and _kiss me back_." 

 

Ronan was so still that if it weren't for the tree branches swaying outside the window Adam would have thought that he had frozen time again. Then slowly Ronan's look of consternation melted into disbelief. He stepped toward Adam, blue eyes chaotic, and lifted a trembling hand to Adam's jaw.

 

"Are you fucking with me, Parrish?"

 

"I wouldn't dream of it." 

 

Ronan kissed the way oxygen deprived lungs sucked in air: reflexively, desperately. Adam wound his arms around Ronan to keep them balanced, to hold him close. He fervently wished time would forget about them and leave them suspended in this moment of searching lips and stuttering breaths, but time callously trudged forward so Adam clung to Ronan and, for a moment, let himself forget about time. 

* * *

 

 Something about kissing Ronan did make the day move slower. The morning unspooled before them at a languid pace. They wandered into the kitchen all thoughts of disappearances, tornadoes, lost time, and time travel momentarily on hold. 

 

Ronan clattered around the stove, producing more metal on metal crashes and eloquent curses than seemed strictly necessary for making pancakes. Adam prodded at the knobs and levers of the shiny espresso machine on the counter until he had two mugs of something resembling espresso and milk. He left one on the counter near Ronan with a shy kiss to the boy's cheek and wandered into the living room with his own mug.

 

The Lynch living-dining-room-kitchen was more of a labyrinth than the term "open floor plan" could really capture. Sofas, expensively upholstered chairs, rugs, and coffee tables were arranged around the room in a way that was not aesthetically pleasing but was strangely intuitive. Standing in the midst of such chaos it seemed to make sense that you would put two couches back to back: one to sit on to gaze out the glass sliding door into the woodsy yard beyond, the other to watch the TV from. People who cared about interior decor or feng shui would probably think it was a disaster to have four overlapping, mismatched rugs in front of the gaping stone fireplace, but Adam remembered that it was the perfect place to sprawl on a rainy day. The strange logic of the room was distinctly Niall; maybe that was why the house still seemed to ache with his absence. 

 

Adam thumbed through a milk crate of old records next to an even older gramophone. Niall had been a collector. Adam had known that as a kid, but now he wondered exactly what that meant. What type of collection would incite someone to cut the break line in his car? It had been a big enough mystery to reach local news: _Couple in small town Oregon plows into cross traffic and crashes into side of warehouse. Husband dead on impact. Wife in critical condition_ (then: stable with brain damage expected, now: going on two years comatose in some facility down by the water). _Investigation finds the break line had been cut. Foul play suspected_. Then months later: _Cold Case_. 

 

The night Adam heard about the accident he had tried to sneak out of the house with fifteen bucks in his pocket—hopefully enough to catch a ride to Arcadia Bay. His father had caught him in the kitchen. It had been the second worst beating of his life. 

 

Ronan was humming in the kitchen, a lilting Irish tune. Adam felt the sound working into his chest, breaking up the darkness there. He hadn't made it back to Arcadia Bay back then but he was here now. There was nothing he could do to fix Niall's death but he could help his sons now. 

 

Inevitably Adam was drawn to Niall's photo wall; one of Niall's many projects had been to cover a wall, ceiling to baseboard, in Polaroids as a type of growing family album. It had been the inspiration for Adam's own photo wall. It made something ache inside Adam to see that half the wall was still unfinished.

 

The Lynch family was scattered through out the photos: glowing Aurora, beaming Niall, and three pudgy faces topped with curly hair. There was a melancholy dissonance in seeing them all smiling so widely. Adam was examining a photo of ten-year-old Declan pulling Ronan in a red wagon when he was distracted by his own face. Eleven-year-old Adam was sandwiched between Ronan, sporting a purple band aid on his chin, and Matthew, in his yellow rain boots. He was still taller than Ronan back then. He chewed his lip. That was a little over six years ago now. One day before Adam's father packed everything they owned into their wheezing pickup and drove Adam away from Arcadia Bay; one week before Adam's eleventh birthday; approximately four years before Niall Lynch's death. The memory of that day was over-saturated in his mind, full of all the emotion he had imbued it with in his years away from Arcadia Bay. It was the last day he had spent with Ronan, it was the day before the few good things Adam had in his childhood were taken away from him. Even now, when he had finally made it back to Arcadia Bay and Ronan, the memories of that day were bittersweet. He exhaled, trying to steady the trembling in his chest. 

 

"Hey." 

 

Adam flinched, but it was just Ronan coming to stand next to him. Ronan's brow furrowed and Adam smiled apologetically at him. He reached out, fitting his free hand into Ronan's. It was so new to touch Ronan this way. Adam bit the inside of his cheek to keep back a nervous smile, Ronan must have felt flustered too because he looked quickly at the picture wall, his cheeks turning red. 

 

Ronan's gaze alighted on the photo Adam had been looking at and a small frown tugged at his lips. Was that day as bittersweet for Ronan as it was for Adam?

 

"You can take it if you want. I've got hundred of pictures of myself as a snot nosed kid." Ronan said, the casual bravado in his voice sounding more forced than usual.

 

Gratitude welled in Adam's chest. Ronan took his coffee cup so that Adam could pull out the  thumbtack and take the photo off the wall. Then, a bit awkwardly because he was still holding the photo and Ronan was holding his coffee, Adam stretched up to press his lips to Ronan's. 

 

That was when Declan walked in. 

 

"Ronan?" Declan's brow was hard, his lips tensed into a carefully inexpressive line. 

 

Declan's presence was like a spark to Ronan's incredibly flammable ire. "What are you doing here?"

 

"Technically this is my house." 

 

"Did you just  _leave_ Matthew at the hospital?"

 

"I need to shower and sleep. Those hospital cots are amazingly uncomfortable." 

 

Dangerous levels of disdain radiated off Ronan as his lip curled. "What a shame you had to sacrifice a night of sleep to comfort your brother after he tried to kill himself." 

 

Declan rubbed his neck. Adam was good at recognizing genuine exhaustion, and he saw it in every line of Declan's premature crow's feet. He wasn't going to intervene though; the rivalry between Declan and Ronan had existed since the dawn of time, and it wasn't his job to moderate it. "Ronan, don't be difficult," Declan sighed.

 

Ronan just scoffed and tugged Adam toward the kitchen. Despite all common sense, Declan followed. 

 

"Is that Dad's pancake recipe? Did you make extra?"

 

"Not for liars who abandon their little brothers in hospitals." 

 

Declan gritted his teeth, "I thought I could bring some for Matthew when I go back, the oatmeal they gave him at the hospital was like sludge." 

 

Ronan's jaw clenched—Declan had struck at his weakness. He hated to let Declan win, but he wouldn't deny Matthew. "There's still batter. Make them yourself," he grunted and proceeded to violently divide the already made pancakes onto two plates.

 

They ate in silence, the peace of the morning thoroughly ruptured. Declan flipped pancakes and Ronan alternated between shoveling food into his mouth and glaring at Declan's back. After a few tense minutes Declan sat down with a stack of pancakes. 

 

"Those the ones you made for Matthew?" Ronan spat.

 

"His are cooling so they can be boxed up." 

 

Ronan made a derisive noise. 

 

"Really, Ronan? I don't want to fight right now." 

 

"Of course you don't. You'd rather do nothing, just like you did the first time Matthew told you something happened to him." 

 

Declan set down his fork slowly, intentionally—Adam did not like where this was going. "I got Matthew back into school, I spent all night researching psychiatrists while he slept. I have not done nothing. But what have you done, Ronan? Almost gotten yourself arrested for trespassing at Blackwell?" Adam, previously resigned to being a passive observer, started, his heart leaping into his throat. He stared at Declan, trying to figure out how much he knew. Declan just stared placidly at Ronan with the calm confidence of someone who knows he has an ace in the hole. "You forget I have friends in campus security. Apparently your BMW was seen at the scene of a break in late last night."  

 

Adam considered Declan. He didn't seem angry, he was using this knowledge as ammunition. Next to Adam, Ronan's lips were curling back, preparing to spit venom.

 

Adam took a half second to weigh his decision then opened his mouth. "We're investigating what happened to Matthew." 

 

Declan swiveled to look at him, blinking in surprise, "What do you mean _investigating_?" 

 

Adam kept his voice level—Declan wouldn't be swayed by emotion, he preferred cool logic, which, thankfully was one of Adam's strengths. "We know that someone did something to Matthew and we know that the police aren't doing anything about it. It seems likely that whoever did that is tied to Blackwell—after all Matthew lives at Blackwell, studies at Blackwell, and was at a primarily Blackwell attended party when everything happened. We're working on figuring out exactly who that person is." 

 

Declan's eyebrows were in danger of disappearing into the curls that drooped onto his forehead after a night of sleeping on a cot. "You think this is wise? You're not qualified." He looked back an forth between Adam and Ronan. He sighed when they showed no sign of insincerity. "Look if we really believe someone hurt Matthew I'll hire a private investigator. We'll get a professional." 

 

Ronan was steaming. Adam gently laid a hand on his knee. If Ronan could get through this conversation without pissing Declan off they could have a valuable ally. 

 

"With all due respect, Declan, a private investigator is a good choice for having someone follow a girlfriend you suspect of cheating, not investigating a past crime that we have no evidence to present them with. Besides, this is a small town, if some stranger starts poking around, whoever did this is going to know."

 

Declan opened his mouth, but Adam silenced him with a leveled look. "I made a promise to Matthew to find out who hurt him. I'm not going to break that promise." 

 

Declan's stare was nearly as unnerving as Ronan's. Adam held his gaze until the steel melted from it as his eyes because glassy. Finally Declan sighed, and pressed his fingers to his temples. "You need to be careful. If someone in this town is hurting kids... don't put yourself in harms way," his eyes shifted to Ronan, "If you get yourself hurt you're going to be hurting Matthew more. Don't forget that."

 

Adam felt a muted sense of achievement. Declan may not agree with their methods, but if he was on their side, if he believed them once they sniffed out the monster that hurt Matthew, they had a real chance of seeking justice. The authorities were a lot more likely to believe him than Adam or Ronan.

 

Declan stood, precisely folded his napkin. and tucked it under his plate. "I'm going to take a nap. Make sure you take those pancakes to Matthew when you go to the hospital." And without another word he retreated upstairs.

 

Ronan stabbed at his pancakes with renewed violence. "You didn't have to tell him that."

 

"He's not going to stop us, and he might be useful later." 

 

Ronan grumbled around his fork. 

 

They finished the rest of their breakfast in silence, but sometime between Adam's second and third pancake Ronan's knee shifted just enough to rest against his and, despite everything, warmth rekindled itself in Adam's chest. 

 

* * *

 

 Over the past 72 hours everything in Adam's life had become sideways, heightened, over saturated. The same was not true for Bernie Duffy. Adam was pretty sure that even if that tornado hit Arcadia Bay Bernie would greet him with a friendly grunt and a laundry list of tasks conveyed in the fewest words possible: "oil change, oil change, tire rotation, break line.." Then they would listen to a baseball game on the radio and work in amiable silence until the shop was blown away. 

 

By the time Adam was done with his shift the Blackwell dining hall had been closed for an hour and he still had a two mile walk home to a dorm room with mini fridge he'd forgotten to restock. 

 

His stomach rumbled loudly as he passed Two Whales. He had a small wad of dollars in his bag. It was a splurge, but Two Whales was objectively cheap. He could make it work. 

 

The door jingled happily as he stepped into the warm French fry scented air. Inside he was greeted by the diner's drowsy evening crowd: a few tired looking fishermen, a man in a windbreaker at the bar, a lone trucker slurping her tomato soup, and Joseph Kavinsky hunched in the booth closest to the jukebox.

 

Adam took a stool at the side of the bar furthest from Kavinsky and plucked a laminated menu from between some ketchup bottles. He skimmed the prices, mentally tallying up tip. 

 

"What can I get for you, hon?"

 

Adam looked up. It was the same waitress that had served him and Ronan yesterday. Even in Ronan's clothes Adam got a smile and a wink. 

 

"Just a burger please." 

 

She fished a tiny notepad from her apron, "Cheese on that?"

 

He glanced down at the menu, "Is it extra?"

 

"Fifty cents."

 

"No thanks."

 

She clicked the end of her pen and smiled at him. "Coming right up, sweetheart."

 

Adam thanked her and wedged the menu back between the ketchup bottles. The man two bar stools to his right reached the end of his soda and used his straw to suck loudly at the ice at the bottom of his drink. Adam realized with a start that he recognized him. He was one of the security guards that escorted them off the roof. The key ring in his pocket (there was no way in hell he was leaving those with Ronan) was suddenly heavy and far too noticeable under the tight fabric. He flexed his fingers and mentally prodded at his brain to see if his powers were in the mood too cooperate. 

 

"Excuse me, sir," the security guard looked up from his crossword, obviously surprised to be addressed, "Do you know Declan Lynch?"

 

He looked even more surprised to be asked that question, "Yes, I—hey, you're that kid that saved Matthew!"

 

Adam reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring of Blackwell keys, "Here." 

 

The guard's eyebrows shot up in surprise, "How do you have those?" 

 

"Put them in your pocket and I'll tell you." 

 

The guard squinted at him suspiciously, but he took the keys and put them in the pocket of his khakis. 

 

Adam raised his hand and reversed time. The conversation was erased from the guard's memory but the keys remained in his pocket. Adam turned back to the counter and smiled to himself. He liked cleaning up messes. There was only one downside: now he had to relive those few minutes, adding them to the time he had to wait to get his food. It was really the small downfalls of playing with time that scifi movies never seemed to consider. His stomach rumbled painfully and he glanced around for something to distract himself with. He considered asking the security guard for the rest of the newspaper that he was clearly done with, but a quick glance told him it was in Spanish. 

 

Before he could look away the guy looked up. He smiled vaguely at Adam, clearly intending to look back at his crossword, but then his head jerked back up. "Hey, you're that kid that saved Matthew Lynch!" 

 

Adam nodded. 

 

"Oh man, you're my hero." He slapped his palm against the table to emphasize his sincerity and Adam tried not to flinch. "What you did—that was amazing." 

 

Adam smiled weakly. If only the guy knew how technically amazing it was—freezing time and all—but Adam could hardly take credit for this accident of nature he had become, and he refused to take credit for saving Matthew's life. That was Matthew's accomplishment. But before Adam could correct the guard he was flagging down the waitress.

 

"Ellen, Ellen! Put whatever this guy's getting on my bill and get him some extra fries or something." 

 

"That's generous of you, sir, but—" 

 

Ellen smiled, clearly delighted to take part in someone's good deed, but the guard didn't stop there, "Did you know this guy saved Matthew Lynch's life? Yeah, he's the one who talked him down."

 

Ellen's eyes went very big and her mouth very small, "Well, oh well, I will make sure your food comes out right away!" She bustled off, in a flurry.

 

"You should be a local celebrity, man." The security guard clapped Adam on the shoulder. "What's your name?"

 

"Adam," he sighed, he was too tired to continue protesting and he had been offered free meals for far worse reasons. 

 

"Honor to sit next to you for dinner, Adam. You're a good kid." 

 

Adam wasn't sure if the comment was tactless or just genuinely relieved, but he did his best to smile at the guy even as his brain was on repeat:  _if only he knew, if only he knew, if only he knew._

The waitress brought him his burger and a veritable mountain of fries. The burger had cheese on it. Adam had a strong sense of shame, but he ate like a starving man anyway.

 

Once Adam's stomach was satiated, his mind turned toward his investigation. He really should ask Kavinsky some questions, especially without Ronan there to escalate the situation. Groaning as he stood on his stiff, tired legs he pulled his bag over his shoulder and crossed the diner to where Kavinsky was hunched. 

 

Kavinsky must have been craving breakfast for dinner; a collection of waffles, pancakes, and French fries  were spread in front of him, each practically untouched as he tapped aggressively at some game on his phone. 

 

"Make way for the fucking hero," Kavinsky sneered when Adam drew level with his table. He didn't bother to look up from his phone. "I thought that guy was going to throw you a parade, or suck your dick. Lynch probably beat him to that one though." 

 

Adam suppressed a sigh. He was so tired. "Look, Kavinsky, I need your help."

 

Kavinsky's race car exploded on his phone screen. He threw the phone onto the table where it skidded into his plate of pancakes. "Ain't that rich coming from a guy who tried to fucking off me," he grinned nastily, perversely pleased by that fact.

 

"Please," Adam hated to sound like he was begging, especially to someone as despicable as Joseph Kavinsky, but he was most likely going to erase the interaction from Kavinsky's memory so it didn't really matter. "It's about Matthew."

 

"And I should care why?"

 

"You deal, right?" 

 

"I already told your fuck buddy I didn't dose him," he rubbed his nose compulsively and Adam wondered what he was on right now. Experience had made him a good judge of telling when people were going to lash out, but with Kavinsky he'd learned he was just as likely to snap when he was buzzed and jittery as when he seemed sober. The diner seemed a safe enough meeting place, but he stayed out of easy reach, just in case. 

 

"You keep tabs on any other dealers in the area, right?" 

 

"'Course."

 

"Is anyone selling something that works like Rufilin but wouldn't show up on a toxicology screening?" 

 

Kavinsky just laughed and stabbed violently at a pile of French fries with his fork. "Heh, all the other losers in this shithole piss themselves if they get their hands on Salvia."

 

"So no one in Arcadia Bay would have something like that?"

 

His lips curled smugly, "I didn't say that." Just what Adam thought. If Kavinsky hadn't drugged Matthew himself the drugs would have originated with him, which meant that the person who drugged Matthew was one of his customers. 

 

"Who have you been selling to?"

 

"Nuhuhuh, fuckboy, Doctor-patient confidentiality. I wouldn't want to be breaking any laws by divulging private information." The pleased sparkle in his eyes told Adam he wasn't going to get any more out of him, so with a sigh, Adam lifted his hand and rewound the conversation. Round two.

 

"Make way for the fucking—"

 

"Hey, Kavinsky," Adam wasn't going to waste time, even when he could rewind time it wasn't an unlimited resource. He slid into the booth across from Kavinsky, trying to configure his face so it looked interested and conspiratorial. Maybe if Kavinsky thought they had something in common he would be more likely to divulge information. "Rumor has it you've got something I could use to knock someone out that wouldn't show up on a tox screening."  

 

"I already told your fuck buddy I didn't dose his brother."

 

"It's not that. I'm looking to buy." 

 

Kavinsky boredom morphed into devilish interest and he dropped his phone carelessly onto the table, "What for? Lynch not giving it up for you?"

 

Adam's stomach twisted in disgust, but he didn't let it show. "I've been having trouble sleeping." 

 

"Alright, alright," Kavinsky eyes twitched in what many have been a wink. He rubbed his nose. "I'll respect your privacy. But tell me," he leaned forward, nearly putting an elbow in his waffles, "does Lynch know?" 

 

Adam kept his face impassive as he weighed his options. "No."

 

Kavinsky's expression became delighted. Bingo. "You know you're not half bad, Parrish. Come by my place tomorrow. I'll fix you up. If you can pay."

 

"I can."

 

"Alright then."

 

Adam stood up as if to leave, then turned back as if just remembering something. "By the way, how did you get Noah's lighter?" he tried to sound as if the information was of no importance to him.

 

"Eh, it was a hush gift."

 

"What for?" He glanced toward the door as if he was already mentally elsewhere while he considered the fact that Noah could have a secret worth paying off Kavinsky to keep quiet about. He looked back at Kavinsky with a raised eyebrow, "C'mon the kid's ditched town, he's not going to fly back from Argentina or Costa Rica or wherever he went just to sucker punch you." 

 

"Eh what the fuck," Kavinsky's deep set eyes glittered, apparently excited to divulge Noah's secret. Adam go the impression that no bribe would be big enough to keep Kavinsky quiet if he wasn't in the mood. "I was stealing some potassium bicarbonate from one of the science pantries this summer—about two weeks before school started. I saw Noah and that pimply Latin professor—Whelk—in a hallway. Whelk was trying to convince Noah to come to his place—and not in a 'grade papers for me' sort of way if you know what I mean." He arched a thick eyebrow suggestively and Adam felt nauseated. "Noah saw me and confronted me about it the next day, gave me this to keep me quiet. I didn't really care for it, but the kid was attached to it, increased the value." 

 

Blood was draining from Adam's face. His mind was already racing. Was this what Professor Milo had discovered? That Whelk had inappropriate feelings for Noah? That he was attempting to act on those feelings? Noah's young, carefree smile swam in front of his eyes. _...concerns regarding Barrington Whelk's participation in the Emerging Educators mentorship program...multiple incidents that I believe should be brought to your attention...._

Was that why Noah left? It certainly gave him a motivation for leaving town, Adam could even understand why he wouldn't have told anyone.

 

He swallowed, thankful he had so much experience keeping his voice casual when he was upset. "Why would he care if you knew a pervy teacher was hitting on him?"

 

Kavinsky was dipping French fries into the maple syrup that pooled around the side of his pancakes, "He said 'ol Barry was going through a hard time, that he really wasn't a bad guy etcetera, etcetera." He popped the fry into his mouth with a derisive snort. Syrup dripped down his lip and his pointed pink tongue flicked out to lick it off.

 

"You don't believe him."

 

"I think Noah liked the attention."

 

Nausea was sloshing in Adam's gut. He reminded himself who he was talking to, he had no evidence that anything Kavinsky said was true, and even if it was he didn't trust Kavinsky's interpretation of the facts.

 

"You think that's why Noah skipped town?"

 

Kavinsky reached for his phone, clearly becoming bored with the conversation. "Nah, knowing Whelk he's probably keeping the little bitch tied up in his basement for his deranged pleasures." 

 

Adam's stomach dropped. Noah Czerny, dirty, bloodied, trapped, abused. He gave himself a second to close his eyes and collect himself. That image wasn't necessarily true. It was only the product of Kavinsky's mind.  

 

"Hey, faggot, don't puke on my food."

 

With a deep breath Adam reversed their conversation. As red tinted the corners of his vision he steadied himself. _Kavinsky's a sick fuck. Noah is probably fine. Don't let him get to you._

 

Adam dropped his hand and looked down at Kavinsky.

 

"Kavinsky," he said before Kavinsky could speak, "I've been meaning to talk to you without Ronan around." 

 

"You're a bit scrawny for my type, but—"

 

"Have you ever sold anything to Barrington Whelk?" 

 

"Why the fuck would I tell you?" 

 

Adam was tired of talking to Kavinsky, he wanted answers, not more questions. Kavinsky's waffles flopped to the floor as Adam grabbed his plate and slammed it on the table. He held the shard of ceramic left in his hand to Kavinsky's throat. There were surprised noises behind him. He had maybe a minute before people would try to interfere. "Have you ever sold drugs to Barrington Whelk?"

 

"Fucking fuck, twice in two days!"

 

Adam pressed the sharp edge into Kavinsky's skin. 

 

"Alright, alright, no I haven't ever sold anything to that dick."

 

Adam nodded sharply. That was all he needed. He dropped the shard and stepped back, lifting his hand. The muttering through out the diner was abruptly muffled by rushing wind, the plate stitched itself together, Kavinsky looked back at his phone. Adam dropped his hand.

 

"Make way for the fucking hero."

 

"Hey, sorry for trying to kill you yesterday." Adam said, slouching into a posture befitting Ronan's expensively distressed jeans. "No harm no foul, right?" He turned on his heel, leaving a consternated Kavinsky in his wake. 

 

* * *

 

Adam was alone in the Two Whales bathroom. He washed his hands and pressed his damp fingers experimentally to his temples, pushed his fingers back along his scalp to press against the crown of his head. Nothing was aching yet, but he couldn't shake the feeling he was walking on a razor's edge. 

 

His eyes unfocused as he considered what he had learned from Kavinsky:

 

  1. The person who drugged Matthew was most likely one of Kavinsky's clients.



 

 

Kavinsky wasn't likely to share his client list with them, but with a little persuasion... Adam considered how far he was willing to go to get information out of Kavinsky. He had been working hard to shy away from violence and rage, but Kavinsky wasn't exactly innocent, and if hurting him helped Matthew... Plus if he rewound it would be like it hadn't happened at all... Adam wondered if that made him a monster, but sometime the ends justified the means. 

 

  1. Something happened between Noah and Whelk and Noah didn't want anyone to know about it.



 

 

Adam staunchly avoided thinking about what Kavinsky had said about Noah in Whelk's basement. It made no sense for Whelk, no matter how depraved he potentially was, to kidnap a student. It was too risky. It did however seem likely that Whelk was key to figuring out why Noah disappeared. He needed to investigate further. He needed to look into Kavinsky's claims, _all of them_ , and figure out what had really happened.  

 

He pushed out of the bathroom and stopped in his tracks. The booth across from the bathroom was now occupied by none other than Barrington Whelk. Adam's hackles raised at the very sight of him, but he pulled himself together. No time like the present. He quickly concocted a plan that, if executed correctly, would give him the access he needed to investigate Whelk further.

 

"Professor Whelk," he stopped at the end of Whelk's table.  

 

"Not a professor anymore," he growled into his cup of coffee. "Least not until 'the administration comes to a verdict.'" He finished in a sneering mimicry of Principal Wells' voice. He set his mug down an glanced at Adam, his expression turning stormy. "Oh, it's you. Here to rub salt into my wounds?"

 

Adam opened his mouth but Whelk wasn't done. 

 

"What have I done to you anyways? I've never given you a bad grade, I've never picked on you in class." He was so throughly pathetic as he grumbled into his coffee that it only added to Adam's revulsion.

 

"I find your inability to realize that your punishment was earned, and not just petty retaliation, troubling," he bit out coldly. 

 

Whelk glared at him. "What, you think  _I_  put Matthew Lynch on that roof? All I did was tell the kid what he needed to hear. If you're looking for monsters you've caught the wrong one." 

 

Adam could hear his molars grinding against each other as he tried not to slam his fist onto the table and upset Whelk's coffee. _Focus on the plan._ "Actually,  _sir_ , I came to tell you I saw a key in the parking lot, by your car. I wanted to let you know in case it was yours."

 

Whelk was caught off guard. He patted at his pockets. "I have my keys."

 

That wasn't good enough, Adam needed Whelk to take his keys out. 

 

"It was just a single car key—could yours have fallen off?"

 

Heavy brow wrinkling Whelk pulled his key ring out of his pocket. Adam took his window of opportunity, he snatched the keys out of Whelk's hand and shoved them into his own pocket, then before Whelk could react he lifted his hand and forced time backwards. When Whelk was once again hunched over his coffee and the red had cleared from Adam's vision he turned away from Whelk and hurried out of the diner before the disgraced professor noticed he was there.  

 

In the parking lot, He paused by Whelk's banged up Corolla. There were three keys on the ring: car key, a key Adam recognized as matching others from Blackwell, and another unmarked key. He quickly removed the third, which was most likely his house key, and dropped the ring with the other two next to the driver side door. All he needed was Whelk's house key, there was no point in stranding Whelk at Two Whales.

 

The October evening was balmy and cloudless, as if the year was giving their little town a few more mild days before autumn descended. Adam wondered if something more sinister than frost and rain was waiting on the other side of this beautiful evening. He strolled down the quiet streets toward Blackwell, his hands shoved in his pockets, his knuckles brushing against Whelk's key, and wondered if prophetic visions were fond of metaphor. Maybe a twister wasn't headed toward Arcadia Bay. Maybe the twister was just a symbol. The real threat to Arcadia Bay was Barrington Whelk, possible kidnapper and sex offender. Maybe Adam was already on the path to saving Arcadia Bay.  

* * *

 

 

Monday began hesitantly at Blackwell. The sun filtered through late-morning mist, students kept their voices low in the halls, and professors eyed their students worriedly, wondering what dark secrets each seemingly happy boy could be hiding. Suicide hotline fliers appeared on every door and bulletin board, eclipsing Noah's watchful smile, but there was no announcement from the administration.

 

Morning classes passed slowly with little participation from the students, but by midday that indomitable Blackwell spirit had prevailed and the boys of Blackwell regained their usual volume and exuberance for shoulder checking each other in the hallway. Adam had very little mental energy to spend on worrying how his classmates were coping with one of their number attempting suicide. He was too busy trying to remember the chapter on inorganic metals he had read last week and ruminating on what Whelk might be hiding. 

 

He was so wrapped up in these thoughts that he was caught off guard when a blazer clad shoulder rammed into him as he left Milo's classroom. 

 

"Adam Parrish, AP! Addy Paddy! P-man!" Adam flinched, but it was just Henry Cheng who was, for some unfathomable reason, grinning at him as if they had been friends for years. "You coming to the party Thursday?" he was flanked by Tad Carruthers (his Polaroid camera hanging around his neck) and his usual shadow, Cheng Two. Both were smiling at Adam like they accosted him in the hallway everyday. 

 

Adam decided it was easier to play along with whatever was happening than try to extract himself from the situation. He blinked back at Henry. "Kavinsky's having another party?"

 

Henry's face soured immediately. Tad and Cheng Two on the other hand "Oooo"ed in delight. Cheng Two slapped Henry on the back boyishly. Adam raised an eyebrow, his question hardly warranted that reaction. 

 

"I'm sure he will," Henry managed, over the amused noises still happening on either side of him. His nose scrunched like he was smelling something bad. "His  _after_ parties are notorious."

 

Adam was still confused. 

 

"Sorry about that, Parrish," Cheng Two said, whipping a tear from his eye as they pushed out of the humanities and started across the quad, "you lighted on a bit of a touchy subject there." Henry sniffed and Cheng Two grinned wider. "As you know, our man here is president of the student body, and he's a tad bit cut up that people prefer Kavinsky's ragers to his..." he glanced sideways at Henry, "super-cool, school appropriate shindigs." 

 

Henry sniffed again, unwrapping his arm from Adam's shoulder so he could flick a pair of shades off his head and over his eyes to better keep his nose in the air without being blinded by the midmorning light. "This dance is going to be off the wall, the chain, the hook, whatever kids are saying these days. Besides, you have to go Parrish, I convinced Greenmantle to wait until the Student Body Party to announce the Everyday Heroes Contest winner."

 

Adam's eyebrows lifted of their own accord when he considered what else Henry had, unsuccessfully, tried to convince Greenmantle of. He wondered how this party fit in to his master plan to bribe their professor.

 

"You know what, I'm going to sweeten the deal for you Parrish, you show up Thursday and I promise to have your name on the list for the VIP lounge." At that Tad made an upset noise, Adam guessed that he hadn't been granted VIP access. "The VIP lounge is usually reserved for the Student Government Representatives and their dates--you heard me right Parrish, 'dates.' There are going to be girls." He said the final part as if it were the capstone of his argument. Tad made another disgruntled noise.

 

Adam chewed his lip, considering. Chilling in Blackwell's VIP lounge with the movers and shakers of Blackwell Academy did not sound like something Adam would enjoy doing, but it sounded like Henry's student body party would bleed into another party at Kavinsky's and if he and Ronan kept their eyes peeled they might get some insight as to Whelk had drugged Matthew. 

 

"Anyone can bring a date to this thing?" 

 

Henry looked delighted that he was taking an interest. "Indeed! Free of charge as long as they're hot." 

 

Adam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Okay, I'll try to make it." 

 

"Oooo so mysterious, Parrish, just pencil us in for Thursday."

 

They had reached the Maths and Sciences building. Cheng Two and Tad turned down the east corridor with boisterous salutes and "see ya laters." Henry continued toward the Chemistry class rooms with Adam. He stopped in front of the chem classroom as Adam reached for the door.

 

"Hey, don't be a stranger, okay?" He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his uniform pants and was looking at the ground. He had forgotten to take off his sunglasses. "I thought it was really cool of you—what you did for Matthew," the forced casualness in his voice was almost painful. "And I know all of us Blackwell guys already seem so chummy, but if you want to talk about it, or play some video games or something, I'm your man." 

 

Adam blinked and watched as Henry scuffed a black mark into the polished wood floor. He was so Blackwell in his neat, hardly worn uniform, artfully tousled hair, and designer messenger bag. Adam thought he had already seen through Henry's facade—and found something distasteful—when he watched Henry try to bribe Greenmantle, but now he wondered if he was wrong. Henry Cheng had layers, who would have thought?

 

"Um, thanks, Henry," he said a beat too late when he realized Henry was waiting for him to respond. 

 

"Anytime, AP!" Henry crowed, regaining some of his previous swagger as a troupe of book laden boys rounded the corner. He strode away toward the advanced physics classroom leaving Adam feeling strangely touched. 

 

* * *

 

Adam found time between lunch and fifth period to use one of the desktop computers in the library. He signed into his email account and was surprised to find an untitled email from Matthew. There was a single line of text in the email. 

 

_Hey, taking Matt to see Mom today. Won't be able to see you. Don't do ANYTHING without me. R_

 

Adam's first response was a selfish pang of wistfulness. He'd been looking forward to seeing Ronan. He wanted to feel the familiar hum of the BMW below him as they sped through the streets of Arcadia Bay, Ronan drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel and making disparaging comments at other drivers. He wanted to tell Ronan about his odd conversation with Henry Cheng. And, most of all, he wanted to kiss Ronan again. His pulse picked up at the thought. 

 

Cool, useful pragmatism quickly took over. They needed to investigate Whelk as soon as possible. Waiting another day was like handing Whelk twenty-four more hours to bury evidence or change his locks. Adam thought of the key he'd taped to the back side of his head board so that it would be difficult to find if someone happened to search his room. He was getting paranoid. The sooner he could return that key the better. Of course, he could break into Whelk's place without Ronan. It would be easy enough; Adam had been operating alone for most of his life. But now that he didn't have to he realized he didn't want to--not when he could have Ronan by his side. 

 

Sighing he hit "reply" and typed out a quick message telling Ronan that he would wait and that he had an important development to share with him. Maybe it was for the best. Now Adam would have time to do his homework and he might be able to snag a few extra hours at the lomography shop. Just like that he mentally reallocated his evening and resigned himself to using his limited time to take care of other responsibilities. 

 

* * *

 

"Yo, Parrish!" Ronan's voice rang above the busy noises of school letting out as Adam walked down the steps of the Math and Science building. He was a vision of aggressive nonchalance slouched against the door of the BMW, bristling in a leather jacket and boots that looked specifically designed to crush the fingers and noses of people who irritated the wearer. 

 

Adam cut across the lawn toward the parking lot, ignoring the strange drop-flutter his stomach did at the sight of Ronan. "Hey." 

 

Was he supposed to kiss him? Yesterday Adam had been so sure that when they saw each other again there would be more kissing, but now that Ronan was in front of him, material and solid, Adam felt jittery. He gripped the messenger bag strap across his chest and stopped just out of arms reach. 

 

"How's Matthew?"

 

Ronan arched a brow but Adam couldn't tell if he was displeased with the distance Adam had left between them or the fact he'd started a conversation with small talk. "Getting there."

 

"And your mom?"

 

"Stable but unresponsive. Same old shit." 

 

Adam made a sympathetic noise and rocked back on his heels, unsure what to say next. 

 

"For fuck's sake," Ronan finally snapped, "get over here." He pushed off the car and reached out to tug Adam forward by the front of his Blackwell sweater. Adam went willingly. 

 

He sighed into the kiss, the tension draining from his shoulders. It was surprisingly easy to let Ronan touch him once he stopped over thinking. He twined his fingers with Ronan as they parted and glanced instinctively over his shoulder. If any of the boy's roaming around the science building noticed they clearly didn't care. He let his gaze shift back to Ronan, taking in the smug quirk in the corner of his lips and feeling his own mouth respond in kind. 

 

"So what's this new intel you mentioned in your email?" Ronan asked. 

 

Adam grimaced, if only everything they were planning to do that afternoon could be as pleasant as kissing Ronan. He dug Whelk's key out of his pocket and held it out to Ronan. "This key should get us into Barrington Whelk's house." 

 

Ronan's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he took the key and examined it from every angle as if it might have "My owner drugs high school students" etched into the side. His lips turned down at the corners, "You really think Whelk's responsible for this? No offense but the guy's kind of wimpy."

 

Kavinsky's smile faded Cheshire cat like into Adam's mind: _knowing Whelk he's probably keeping the poor bastard tied up in his basement for his deranged pleasures._ Adam wasn't about to share Kavinsky's theories with Ronan. He wasn't even sure if he should tell Ronan about Noah's alleged relationship with Whelk. He didn't think Kavinsky was lying about that part, but he could guess how the information would affect Ronan, and the last thing he needed was Ronan acting irrational out of anger—he was irrational enough when he was just mildly irritated. 

 

Adam chose his words carefully, "I think it is very likely Whelk has something to do with why Noah left, and after the way he treated Matthew I wonder if the two events are more connected than we thought."

 

Ronan chewed his bottom lip consideringly. "Okay, I can get behind that. Let's see what that bastard is hiding."

 

* * *

 

Adam had figured that they would have to do some additional sleuthing to find Whelk's address and was taken but surprise when Ronan informed him that would not be necessary, he remembered Whelk's address from the contact info in his file. 

 

"You only held that file for, like, thirty seconds!"

 

"Yeah, I probably have a photographic memory or something." 

 

"Really? A photographic memory and you couldn't maintain a C average?"

 

"Well, if they had been teaching me something relevant like breaking into professor's houses then maybe school would be worth my time." 

 

Adam huffed and dropped his head back against the headrest. He was just going to have to accept that there were parts of Ronan he would never understand

 

They wound up parking a few houses down from Whelk's to wait. Ideally the car's dark tinted windows would keep them from being noticed, but the BMW was hardly innocuous on a block dotted with junkers and two-doors with mismatched paint jobs. Still, it was better than Whelk seeing their faces.

 

Whelk's place was a run-down one story with brown paint peeling off the sides in long ribbons. The blinds were drawn but they could see light and movement in one of the windows, so they opened a bag of chips, turned the radio to a low hum and commenced their stakeout. 

 

"You don't listen to any house music?" Ronan somehow managed to look mortally offended while pouring chips into his mouth.

 

Adam had his feet propped on the dash board (with Ronan's permission). He wrapped his arms around his thighs and hugged his knees closer to his chest. "I don't think so? Is that like indie music? Like music made in a house not a studio?" 

 

Ronan pretended to bang his head against the top of his steering wheel. "You're hopeless." 

 

Adam smiled despite himself. He wanted to reach out and take Ronan's hand. Was that wrong? He probably shouldn't want to hold Ronan's hand when they were sitting outside their potentially criminal Latin professor's house, waiting for an opportunity to rifle through his stuff and see if they could find evidence that he had drugged Matthew and made Noah run away. This wasn't how dating was supposed to go, but he supposed it suited them. Adam still wanted to hold Ronan's hand.

 

Before Adam could reach for Ronan's hand and before Ronan could delve into an explanation of "house music," Whelk's front door swung open. They jolted to attention, dropping chip bags and reaching for door handles as Whelk yanked open his rickety garage door and climbed into his car. Whelk sped away, never once glancing in their direction.

 

"Well," Ronan said as breezy as ever, "I guess it's now or never."

 

* * *

 

Adam knew what poor looked like. He was familiar with carpet that never felt clean because no one in the trailer park had a vacuum and sweeping never seemed to get rid of the grit that stuck in the fibers. He knew about cabinet doors hanging at odd angles because no one had the time or energy to fix them. He had been in homes where "living space" meant a mattress on the floor next to a fraying armchair where you could sit and face nothing worth looking at. Adam knew what poor looked like, but this was not poor, this was neglect: fast food wrappers on the floor, tacky puddles of dried beer on the kitchen counter, a bathroom dusted in unswept hair, Latin texts jumbled in piles, their pages crumpled and torn. Adam was disgusted. 

 

"How does he live like this?" His voice echoed back at him out of Whelk's dusty kitchen cabinet which was bare aside from a box of raisin bran and some instant ramen packs. 

 

Across the room Ronan was poking through the debris on the coffee table with a pencil, nose wrinkled despite the fact that he had seen the disaster Ronan's own room was. "This doesn't make you feel right at home?" he teased.

 

Adam looked wearily at him, "Why? Because poor people are slovenly pigs that wouldn't know how to take care of nice things if they had them?" He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and crouched down to look in the space below the sink. "Any other stereotypes you need to get out of your system?" 

 

"It was just a joke."

 

"It wasn't funny."

 

Adam turned to the fridge as Ronan ripped the cushions off the couch with unnecessarily violence. "Well sorry then," Ronan said, sounding surly. Adam supposed it was the closest he came to contrite. "I'm going to check the bedroom." 

 

Adam sighed and let him go burn off his mood in the other room. He finished up the kitchen—there was nothing incriminating there, unless they were accusing Whelk of abysmal nutrition and lack of hygiene—and rounded the counter to finish searching the living room. 

 

The advantage of Whelk's "minimalist" "lifestyle" was that, despite the abundance of litter, there was actually very little to go through. The couch hid nothing but crumbs, the coffee table had no secret compartments, and a boxy television on a folding table was hardly incriminating. Adam was starting to wonder if Whelk really was just a sad bachelor who was mean to his students and had tried and failed to seduce Noah. It was still a sad and despicable thing to be, but it meant that they weren't going to find the "something more" they were looking for, the evidence that Whelk was willfully destroying these boys' lives.

 

The only place left to check was Whelk's desk. Like most of Whelk's furniture the desk looked like it had been picked up from a yard sale or someone's curb. But unlike most of his other furniture it looked like he had taken effort to keep it in functioning condition. The handle on the desk's pull drawer was intact and firmly in place. The surface of the desk was level despite the slight tilt to the  floor thanks to a tattered paperback Whelk had shoved under one leg. The desk was three inches deep in Latin books and loose pages of ruled paper filled with Whelk's familiar, cramped hand. Adam picked up a few pages and examined them: lesson plans, vocab lists, annotated translations. At least Whelk seemed to have genuine dedication to his subject. 

 

"I feel like I'm going to get AIDS if I touch his bed," Ronan shouted from the other room. "And I can say that because I am a member of a demographic primarily affected by AIDS-phobia." Adam huffed out a laugh despite himself. Apparently nothing rallied Ronan's spirits quite like trespassing. 

 

He continued picking through Whelk's scattered lesson plans. He was slowly becoming resigned to the fact that Whelk might just be an everyday asshole when he picked up a chart of third declension feminine noun endings and froze. One of the papers he had uncovered was notably different from the rest on the desk. It was nearly completely black with ink. Whelk's recognizable letters were distorted with haste and desperation as they abandoned the lines to curl around each other with the same, startling, five word phrase: _Noah in the dark room. Noah in the dark room._

 

Adam's stomach processed what he was seeing before his brain did and curled into a nauseated ball. Whelk was disturbed. What had he done to Noah? Obsession, desire, violence—Adam thought he could read it all in the jagged letters of those five words: _Noah in the dark room._ Adam felt the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He opened his mouth to call Ronan, but Ronan was already shouting his name from the other room. 

 

They met in the doorway to the bedroom. 

 

"This is Noah's." Ronan shoved a fistful of fabric in Adam's face. "This is Noah's fucking sweater. Why does he have Noah's sweater?" An angry red flush was creeping up Ronan's neck, but his blue eyes were wide, begging for an explanation. 

 

Adam swallowed, he had a possible explanation, but he wasn't ready to share it just yet, so instead he lifted the piece of paper for Ronan to look at. "Look what I found." 

 

A crease formed between Ronan's brows as his eyes raced across the page then his jaw set and his face became murderously dark. "What the hell did he do to Noah?"

 

Adam sucked in a steadying breath; he needed to stay calm and level headed or Ronan wouldn't. "I don't know. But if we can find real evidence of what he did and get him locked up, I have a feeling Noah would stop hiding."

 

Ronan chewed his lip and for a moment the look of conflicting hope and fear in his eyes made Adam's heart break. Then he squared his shoulders. "We're going to make sure that bastard burns." 

 

Adam nodded. They were getting somewhere, no one said they would like what they uncovered, but they would uncover the truth. For Matthew. For Noah. "Okay," he said, "we just need to find something concrete. Something that will tell us what happened to Noah, or that we could use to get Whelk locked up."

 

Ronan growled, running his hand over his head, "Whelk could be back any minute and he's obviously not dumb enough to leave evidence where someone would find it."

 

Adam chewed the inside of his cheek, his mind running through what they should be looking for and where it could possibly be. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his knuckles came into contact with the jagged edge of Whelk's house key. He rubbed his thumb along the key's jagged teeth and his whirring mind paused. His gaze flicked toward what he could see of Whelk's bedroom around Ronan. It was worth a shot. 

 

It was indicative of Whelk's illogical standards that, even though he clearly did not maintain the things his owned, he had invested in a headboard. There was a gap about two inches wide between the wall and the headboard. Adam reached his hand into the gap and splayed his finger against the wood. He only had to move down about six inches before his hand brushed what felt like a plastic bag. "Ronan, I think I have something."     

 

Ronan was at his side in an instant, trying to peer into the crack from above. One of his hands rested on the small of Adam's back. "What is it?"

 

Adam bushed his fingers around the edges of the ziplock bag and up to where it was held to the headboard by a few inches of duck tape. He couldn't guess what the bag contained, but it felt like a substantial weight. "I'm working on that part."

 

He found a frayed edge of the duck tape and worried the corner until he could pinch it between two fingers and rip the tape off. He pulled the bag into the light.

 

It was a cell phone. A cell phone in a zip lock bag taped to the back of a headboard—if that wasn't suspicious he didn't know what was

 

Ronan snatched the bag out of his hand. "That's Noah's!"

 

Noah's? They stared at the phone. Adam quickly recalibrated using the new information. There was something incriminating on Noah's phone, something Whelk didn't want anyone to find. Noah had left town without his phone—that could be voluntary. He knew it would be harder for Whelk or his family to hunt him down without a satellite signature. Or maybe Whelk had stolen his phone to keep Noah from exposing him. Or maybe Whelk _had_ done something more sinister to Noah.     

 

_Knowing Whelk, he's probably keeping the poor bastard tied up in his basement for his deranged pleasures._

 

But where? Whelk didn't have a basement or a back shed. His garage was practically empty. If he was keeping Noah somewhere it wasn't here.

 

No, Adam wouldn't assume the worst until he had actual evidence. For Ronan's sake he would operate under the notion that Noah Czerny left Arcadia Bay of his own volition—even if that was starting to seem less and less likely. 

 

Ronan was ripping open the bag before Adam could tell him not to touch the phone to preserve Whelk's finger prints.

 

They were both so deep in their various thoughts that they didn't notice the sounds of a car rolling down the street outside until it was nearly outside the house. They froze, their eyes locking. Adam's breath caught in his throat. Ronan clutched the phone to his chest. But then the car continued down the block. 

 

They didn't relax, tensed and ready to spring, their ears straining for another car. 

 

"Make sure everything looks like it did when we got here." 

 

"I'm pretty sure I could crap in his bed and it wouldn't make this place any shittier than it already was."

 

"Ronan."

 

"On it." 

 

They crept through the living room, making sure everything was approximately as disorderly as when they arrived. 

 

"Where did you find Noah's sweater." 

 

"The bed, doesn't matter though. We're taking that with us." 

 

"Ronan," Adam said, hearing the strain in his own voice, "We can't. I have a feeling he would notice if that was gone." He felt disgusting even suggesting it. How was it so easy for him to imagine the perverse workings of a hypothetical stalker's mind? The answer probably revealed too much of the broken person he was, but he didn't have time to consider that now. He was certain Whelk would miss the sweater, and even if Whelk wouldn't go to the police to report already stolen property, the longer before he suspected someone snooping around his stuff the better. "Just trust me on this, Ronan. Let's get out of here." 

 

"Fine," Ronan darted back to the bedroom to toss the sweater onto the bed and then rejoined him by the back door. 

They slipped outside, hearts racing. What were the chances Whelk would arrive back home the minute they were almost to freedom? They crept around the corner of the house. The street was clear, so they walked as casually as possibly out from Whelk's yard to the BMW. This time when they were safely in the car with the doors shut there was none of the giddy elation of the previous night. Ronan silently started the car and they drove away.    

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What good was it having this ability if he couldn't actually fix anything with it? All he was doing now was trying to pull together already shattered pieces.
> 
> Adam discovers another aspect of his ability. Everything goes perfectly, until it doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! Thank you so much for you patience, your kudos, and your comments! 
> 
> This part of the story was interesting to adapt for Pynch. I hope those of you who are familiar with LiS find my changes interesting!
> 
> Continued warnings for mentions of death, attempted suicide, and car accidents. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Yo, anyone else notice all the dead birds around campus? Shit's weird.**

 

Sick of tossing and turning, Adam had finally admitted defeat in the early hours of the morning and booted up his library-rental laptop. He had logged in to Facebook, hoping to drown out thoughts of Whelk and tornadoes with vague irritation at someone's ill conceived Facebook rant or even bafflement over how so many of his classmates thought they were going to be employable after the incriminating pictures they posted. However, he had barely sunk into a social media stupor when he came across Koh's status: _anyone else notice all the dead birds around campus?_  


 

Adam hadn't. He'd been busy running around, breaking into professors' houses with Ronan. Were there a lot of dead birds? It felt like another piece to the bigger picture Adam was still struggling to see. He clicked to expand the comments on Koh's status. The first commenter was Steve Kim, who, like Koh, was a peripheral part of Henry Cheng's posse. Adam hardly knew either of them, but had been willing enough to accept their friend requests when he started at Blackwell. 

**~SickSteve~: What are you RAVEN about, Koh?**

**Koh: There were some dead crows behind the science building this morning, and a jay in the quad at lunch. Then a sparrow dive bombed my window. It's turning into an avian graveyard out there.**

**~SickSteve~: That's a lot to SWALLOW.**

  
**Henry Broadway: It's not just campus, there were dozens down at the beach.** **Eerie shit.**  


**Henry Cheng: This^^ my good men, is the devastating effect of climate change. This is our future if we don't act now. If the school would just expand the jurisdiction of the student body president, and increase the discretionary budget of the student government, we could stop being part of the problem! We could make real change! I'm talking solar panels, gentlemen!**

**~SickSteve~: Stop HAWKING a bunch of lies, Cheng.**

**Henry Cheng: Steven, your jokes would be funnier if you didn't capitalize the punchline.**

**Henry Broadway: I don't think they'd be funny anyway**

**Koh: Go to sleep, Steve. I can hear you laughing through the wall.**

**~SickSteve~: You guys are all a bunch of TITS.**

**Henry Cheng: Jesus Christ**

Adam considered Henry Cheng's self-righteous assertion about climate change. That wasn't how climate change was supposed to worked—climate change happened gradually, slowly killing off a species over time. An entire population of birds weren't supposed to drop dead overnight. Then again it seemed unlikely that climate change could explain an unscheduled solar eclipse or even a freak snow storm. Something was definitely wrong in Arcadia Bay. 

 

Stress pounded in Adam's temples. His attempt to distract himself had failed miserably. His mind was already kicking back in gear, searching for an explanation for the strange phenomena. Why had all of this begun the day he had a vision of a tornado? Did his time traveling ability come with psychic powers as well? Was the strange weather phenomena the source of his sudden ability? Or, and this was the option Adam didn't like to consider, was his ability responsible for the strange weather?

 

He dug the thumb of his right hand into the flesh between the thumb and pointer finger of his left hand, trying to alleviate his headache. It was pointless, so he crossed the room to retrieve his journal out of the bag hung on his bedpost. Dead birds and potential cyclones were beyond his ability to fix, so he might as well spend his mental energy on something he had a hope of figuring out.

 

As he slid the sheaf of paper covered in Whelk's scribbles out of his journal, a smaller square fell out with it—the Polaroid Ronan had given him. The photo landed face up on the bed and Adam felt his gaze drawn toward it. Three smiling faces. Matthew's grin was sloppy and carefree and Adam could spot at least two missing teeth. Ronan's smile was already more of a smirk. Back then his destructive energies had been dedicated to dropping Declan's model planes from trees and trying to jump his bike over Aurora's flower beds. In the photo it was joyful mischief, not anger that sparkled in his eyes. Adam's own smile was barely present on his lips, but he could see it in the corners of his eyes. He could see how happy he was squished between Matthew and Ronan on a drizzly autumn afternoon. 

 

A pang of longing resonated in his chest. If he could go back to that day he could actually change things. He could save Niall and Aurora, stop Matthew from being kidnapped, and get back the Ronan with joy in his eyes. What good was it having this ability if he couldn't actually fix anything with it? All he was doing now was trying to pull together already shattered pieces. Irritation burned through the longing in Adam's chest and in a sudden surge of anger he grabbed the photo off the bed and flung it to the ground. It fluttered unsatisfyingly to the carpet.

 

Adam breathed out slowly through his nose, forcing out the anger and allowing longing to fill him up again. Longing was better than anger—it was him, it was what his bones were made of, not an unwanted heirloom from his father. He crouched and picked up the photo and let himself feel the aching in his chest as he gazed at the picture.  _If only he could rewind that far._  


 

The edges of the Polaroid blurred and the figures inside it's white frame doubled and tripled and became indistinct. Adam didn't notice the white clouding his vision until he couldn't see anything other than the photo. He blinked, but the white continued to creep inward, narrowing his vision to a point: his own young, wistfully happy face. A slipping feeling pulled at him from inside. And then there was a sensation like he was being tugged backward. He tried to tighten his grip on the photo, but he couldn't feel his fingers. He tried to rise out of his crouching position, but his muscles were locked. Panic welled in his throat but there was nothing he could do as white consumed his vision.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His hearing returned first, in _both_ ears. There was the unmistakable sound of a Polaroid camera discharging a photo, and in the distance there were birds and a car driving through a puddle. As his eyes adjusted Adam could make out shapes and colors. A familiar lawn stretched out in front of him, shockingly green against an overcast sky. In the foreground, Niall Lynch squatted on the front path, his face hidden behind his trusty Polaroid. Adam sucked in a breath. Was he _in_ the photograph? He blinked rapidly, trying to clear away this new hallucination, but the scene stayed stubbornly real in front of him.

 

Niall lowered his camera, "No bunny ears and no goofy face? Wow, Ronan, you're really growing up." 

 

The weight of an arm lifted off Adam's shoulders and from his right there came a disgusted noise that was recognizably Ronan's.  

Adam chewed his lip in confusion. A photograph was supposed to be static; an instant or an idea made immutable by the lens. But Ronan and Niall were moving around him, and if he thought about it he could feel time pushing doggedly forward. If Adam wasn't in the photo where was he? In his own memory? How was that possible? 

 

Ronan grumbled at his father and went to chase after one of the soccer balls on the lawn; Niall's voice rumbled after him, but Adam couldn't make out the words past the thoughts that were firing off with growing urgency in his mind. What if this wasn't his memory? Could he have rewound this far? He had never fast forwarded before, if he had rewound would he be stuck reliving the last six years of his life? His blood was pounding in his head. He couldn't exhale. The stale air in his lungs was suffocating. Had he gotten himself lost in time?

 

  
_Be logical._ He chastised himself as he felt himself teetering on the edge of panic.  _Look at yourself, you're a kid again._ It was true, his hands were small and bony, his feet were clad in the ratty sneakers he remembered all too well from fourth and fifth grade, and he could feel how short he was.  _You and the things you are touching never change when you rewind, you should still be holding that photo._ He looked down at his empty, small hands and felt air trickling out of his lungs. He wasn't in the photo and he hadn't rewound—this was something else entirely. Could he have actually traveled back in time? With oxygen came a particle of hope. If he had done it, if he had actually gone back six years in time, he had a chance to fix things. His heart began pounding a more hopeful rhythm in his chest. He needed to act quick. He didn't know how this type of time manipulation would work; he might be be stuck reliving the last six years or he might have mere minutes to fix things. He wasn't going to risk losing his chance to save Niall Lynch.

 

"Aa-dum," a hand even smaller than his own entered his sight and rested on one of his upturned palms, "are you o-tay?" He knew it was Matthew without looking—his missing teeth gave him a slushy lisp. "Aa-dum? Aa-dum? Dad! There's something wrong with Aa-dum!"

 

Adam steeled himself as he felt both Ronan and Niall's attention turn to him. Niall's hand rested heavily on Adam's small shoulder and Adam met Niall's eyes—they were the same piercing blue as Ronan's, and for a moment Adam couldn't catch his breath.

 

"Adam?"

 

"I need to talk to you," Adam said hurriedly, "Mr. Lynch." The formality felt foreign on his lips although he had never used Niall's first name as a child.

 

Niall's mouth tightened into a resigned frown.  "Ronan, make sure your brother stays out of the street. Adam and I are going inside for a minute." 

 

"But—" Ronan was already padding toward them, concern plain in his young voice. Adam couldn't bare to look at him, to see him so naive and happy, so he looked down at the smudge of grass across the toe of his sneakers. 

 

"We'll just be a minute, Ronan." Niall's tone didn't allow room for protest. Ronan fell quiet and Niall steered Adam into the house.

 

It was less disorienting to be alone with Niall. Adam had only ever known Niall looking like this; his hair shaggy and dark, his face clean shaven and almost youthful if it weren't for the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, identical to the ones Declan had now.  

 

Niall pulled two chairs out from the kitchen table, sat in one, and gestured for Adam to use the other. Adam remained standing. It made him uncomfortable that the table came up to his chest, but he had the feeling that sitting and finding that his feet didn't touch the floor would feel even more strange. He folded his arms across his chest and considered how to phrase his warning so that Niall would believe him. 

 

"Adam, what's this about?" Niall pried gently. Adam gave himself one more beat to evaluate what he wanted to say. Niall must have mistaken his caution for hesitance, because he spoke again, voice gentle and searching, "Is this about your parents? Is there something you want to tell me about them?" The tenderness in the corners of his frown made Adam uncomfortable, he was used to larger-than-life, grinning, careless Niall. If Niall ever showed fatherly concern he saved it for moments when he was alone with his family. Adam had no defense against the way Niall's brow furrowed or the way he folded himself forward so he could be eye level with Adam. An ache bloomed in Adam's chest. He shook himself to dislodge the feeling. He wouldn't loose sight of his goal.

 

He squared his shoulders and looked Niall in the eye, trying to convey his real age. "I need to warn you of something, Niall." His voice sounded tremulous and young, even as he dropped every pretense of how he had spoken as a child. "But first I need to know that you'll believe me." 

 

Niall registered the change in Adam's demeanor with a surprised twitch of his eyebrows, "Alright, Adam, I trust you, you can tell me." 

 

Was he just pandering to an eleven-year-old? Playing along in the hope that Adam would reveal what was bothering him? Or did he really believe that Adam had a warning for him? Ronan had been so ready to believe Adam's ability to play with time, maybe he got that credulity from his father. Adam could only hope.

 

"Do you believe in the supernatural, Niall?" 

 

"Vampires, werewolves, that sort of thing?" 

 

"No, not that bullshit," he placed the swear carefully, hoping it would make him sound older, "time manipulation, chronokinesis." 

 

Niall's eyebrows hitched higher but he was otherwise unfazed. "Why do you ask?"

 

Adam knew his gaze could be unsettling; he hoped that with his hollow cheeked young face it would be truly uncanny. He needed Niall to believe the improbable story he was about to tell.

 

"On November 1st, 2013 someone is going to tamper with your car—not the BMW, Aurora's coup—while you are out." Niall's expression sharpened into calculating intensity—Adam met his gaze with an even stare and tried not to think about how much his eyes looked like Ronan's. "If you drive the car you will get into an accident. You will die and Aurora will end up in a coma." He enunciated the words ruthlessly, wanting Niall to feel their impact. Niall didn't flinch. "Your sons will be devastated. Declan will have to put all his plans on hold to keep them together, Matthew will attempt suicide, and Ronan," something caught in Adam's throat as he thought of the defeated look he saw in Ronan's eyes, "will miss you so much that he becomes almost unrecognizable. He—I just want things to be easy for him and without you they aren't." Adam felt his breath start to stutter and he had to stop talking. He pressed the back of his wrist to his lips to keep them from trembling.

 

Niall deflated as he scrubbed a hand over his face. When he looked at Adam again he wasn't disbelieving or irritated like Adam thought he might be—the cheery flush that usually spotted his cheeks was gone and he looked ashen. "How do you know this?"

 

The truth, as ridiculous as it was, was the only answer Adam could bear to give when the look on Niall's face was so reminiscent of Ronan. "Because right now I'm not the Adam you know, or I am, but I'm seventeen. I've only been here for a moment and chances are I won't be here much longer." He knew it was true as he said it. Something was tugging on the back of his mind, trying to pull him back to his present. "Eleven-year-old Adam won't remember this conversation. I just came back because I want to fix this—for Ronan." 

 

Niall nodded to himself, his eyes unfocused, and his hand running through his hair and turning his curls into a rumpled mess. Adam could only clench his fists and wait for Niall's verdict.

 

"Thank you for—thank you Adam."

 

Everything that was wound too tightly in him relaxed. _Niall believed him._ He had equipped Niall with the knowledge he needed to prevent the car wreck. He may have just saved Niall and Aurora's lives. Relief was a palpable thing as it flowed through his veins, leaving his fingers and toes tingling. 

 

"But—"

 

The relief flooding Adam's veins faltered and he looked back at Niall questioningly.

 

"I need one more bit of honesty from you: are your parents mistreating you—eleven year old you?" Adam's heart seized and he quickly opened his mouth to tell Niall not to worry about that but Niall didn't stop. "If you can give us any evidence, Aurora and I will go to Child Services.  We can change your future—your past—you don't have to go through this, Adam." 

 

Adam had played out this scenario too many times for him to recall—at night when it was late enough that his parents wouldn't hear him crying through the thin walls of their double-wide; when Aurora would drive him back to the trailer park after a day at Ronan's house; during recess at his new school when he would arrange small stones into patterns in an abandoned corner of the school yard. Even long after he was convinced Ronan had forgotten him he would imagine Aurora and Niall tracking him down and bringing him back to Arcadia Bay. Now Niall sat in front of him sounding like a figment of one of those daydreams but as tangible as the edge of the table when Adam slumped into it and the wood pressed into the bruises hidden beneath his thin t-shirt.

 

Niall was offering him the fantasy Adam had devoted hundreds of restless hours to imagining—but he couldn't take it.

 

He felt his heart breaking inside of him. 

 

It took two tries to get a weak, "I can't" past his lips and when he did it sounded ragged and broken. This was the one thing he couldn't risk changing. If he altered his past he might never develop the ability to come back and warn Niall, he might end up with a happy childhood he had no memory of, or he might have to live through his childhood again but as a seventeen year old trapped in his younger body. He would undo all his hard work and then some. He couldn't risk it. So he clenched his jaw so hard it hurt and looked Niall in the eyes, "You can't save me, Niall. If I'm going to play with time I can't risk drastically changing my own timeline." 

 

He saw acceptance settle in Niall's eyes but he could tell from the tension in his shoulders that he didn't like it. 

 

"So what happens next?" It was strange to see Niall look at him like that, like an adult, like someone with answers. 

 

Adam crossed his arms self consciously. "I don't know." But even as he said it the edges of his vision blurred and he felt his brain beginning to go fuzzy. "I—I—" it was harder to control this body now, "I think I'm leaving." 

 

The world flashed white. 

 

* * *

 

 

For a moment there was nothing but a soft, diffuse glow enveloping his mind as he detached from time. Then came the voices: his father's growl, Professor Greenmantle's smooth tenor, Ronan's laugh, a playful lilt that he thought may have belonged to Henry Cheng of all people. The sound bites rushed at his ears, each one coming quickly after the last until they were overlapping and overwhelming him in a cacophony of familiar voices. He wanted to slap his hands over his ears to block them out, but he couldn't feel his hands, or his ears for that matter. He was bodiless in this time warp where the world had narrowed down to light and snippets of memories. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The white drained from his vision and he was back on his dorm room floor, the old photograph cradled in his hand. 

 

He dropped the photo and pressed his hands to his chest. He was _back_. He dragged his fingers over his shoulders and up his neck to his ears. He didn't have to snap his fingers in front of his left ear to tell he was still deaf in it, but he did anyway. 

 

When he stood his bed only came up to his knee, and for a moment the relief of returning to his seventeen-year-old body was strong enough to distract him from the reality of what he had done. Then his eyes caught on the Polaroid and everything came rushing back. He snatched up the photo and held it close to his face. The three young faces grinning up at him were exactly the same. He glanced around his room looking for something different, some sort of sign that the present had changed, that his attempt to save Niall and Aurora worked and now he was in a better reality. 

 

There was a knock on the door. Adam felt something hopeful taking root in his chest. Was Ronan back at Blackwell? With his parents alive to keep him happy and in check there was no reason for Ronan to drop out. He crossed the room quickly, feeling light headed. Had they kissed in this new version of reality? Did Ronan still like him if everything else in his life was going well? It shouldn't have been what he thought of first, but he couldn't help the way his heart thudded in his chest with a mix of nerves and hope. 

 

Adam yanked the door open.

 

"Oi, someone's in a good mood this fine morning." 

 

Adam stopped short, grin melting in confusion. "Henry? What are you doing here?"

 

"Lovely to see you as well, bestie. I'm only here to return your history notes and to extract a blood oath from you to the effect that you will not rain check on Catan tonight."

 

Adam watched him in startled bewilderment. Henry must have interpreted his expression as disagreement because he continued prattling, "You have bailed twice now. One more and you're going to be in SickSteve's bad books and I am certain you don't want that. Also Tad wants you to come so he can crash and make more ultra subtle remarks about how great you two would be together." 

 

Every sentence out of Henry's mouth was utter nonsense. Adam didn't have the brain power to deal with this right now, he needed to figure out what he had changed—aside from Henry's inexplicable assumption that they were friends. "Where's Ronan?"

 

Henry stopped prattling with a confused eyebrow arch, "Ronan who?" 

 

Adam groaned, he didn't have time to waste on Henry. He needed to talk to Ronan and to see Aurora and Niall with his own eyes. Adam reached for his bag and skirted around Henry towards the door. "Sorry, Henry, I have to go do something."

 

"What? Zero period history starts in fifteen minutes!"

 

"Tell them I'm sick."

 

"Ah, so he does have a truant bone in his body!" 

 

Adam didn't bother to respond as he pushed out of his room and jogged down the hall. 

 

He had obviously changed something if Henry was casually stopping by his room before class. But where was Ronan? He had to find him, to see him happy. Fledgling hope fluttered in his chest as he unlocked his junker of a bike (that hadn't changed and, thankfully, neither had his lock combo). He wouldn't let himself get excited until he saw Aurora and Niall with his own eyes, but hope was a heady emotion and he couldn't stop imagining the Lynch family smiling and whole as he mounted his bike. 

 

* * *

 

 

He peddled so fast he thought his thigh muscles would melt off his bones and his bike would shake apart. He made it to Ronan's house in under fifteen minutes. 

 

Both Niall's BMW and Aurora's coup were in the driveway.

 

Out of breath, Adam threw his bike down on the lawn and pounded on the front door. There was an excruciating moment before he heard the sound of footsteps then the click of the lock. His breath caught as the door creaked open. 

 

  
_Aurora_. She looked hardly a day older than Adam remembered: her soft mouth curved into a smile, a floral apron lightly dusted in flour, everything about her gentle and welcoming and so different from what Adam's own mother was. The sight of her was so surreal that Adam would have thought he was dreaming if he couldn't feel time trudging along at its usual pace. This was real. This was simply a moment in the usual progression of time—a moment he was sharing with a healthy, conscious Aurora. He had fixed this.

 

"Can I help you?" 

 

Adam was jolted out of his stupor, but his mouth worked open and closed before he was able to force out words, "Mrs. Lynch, it's good to see you."

 

She tilted her head, a mild smile on her face as she tried to place him.

 

"It's me—I'm—Adam."

 

That broke through her polite smile. Joy flickered across her face, lighting her eyes and pulling her mouth into a true smile, but it only lasted a second before it faltered and her face fell. "Oh, Adam, Niall said you would be back." She extended her arms and Adam found himself pulled against her chest, the lace on the straps of her apron tickling his chin.

 

His heart contracted and expanded inside him. _He'd done it._ She smelled like vanilla and fresh baked bread and she was _here_.

 

Adam pulled back when the warm feeling in his chest and the tender arms around him became too much. "Niall, is he...?"

 

"Come in, he'll want to see you."

 

Adam felt dizzy as he followed Aurora through the sleepy, morning lit foyer of the house he knew so well. When he had first returned to these rooms less than a week ago he had thought that hardly anything had changed, but now he realized what an impact Aurora had on the house; the air smelled like something sweet had just come out of the oven and it was free of the layer of dust Adam had become accustomed to. It felt like a home again. Aurora led him into the living room where someone sat behind an open newspaper. Adam's heart pounded hard and fast against his ribs.

 

"Niall, we have a visitor." Aurora urged Adam toward one of the the empty dining room chairs, "Have a seat. I just finished some blue berry muffins. I'll bring us a plate."

 

The newspaper lowered. Niall hadn't escaped aging the way Aurora had. His dark curls were streaked with gray, his skin had become leathery, and there were shadows beneath his eyes, but it would take far more than half a dozen years to make Niall anything less than strikingly hansom. Niall meet Adam's gaze and held it. 

 

"Good to see you again, Adam."

 

"Niall." Adam inclined his head in acknowledgment. He was fighting down a lump in his throat and wasn't sure how much he could speak at the moment.

 

"One day you'll have to tell me more about the mechanics of time manipulation. As you can imagine, the past six years have made me very curious." There was a twinkle in his smile that reminded Adam of Ronan.

 

"Yes, sir." 

 

Aurora set a plate of warm muffins on the table. The smell of them reminded Adam of chilly fall mornings in his childhood. He looked between Aurora and Niall, and fought back the heat building behind his eyelids.

 

"It's so good to see you." He stammered around the lump in his throat. The words were insufficient. He had never been good at touching moments, but judging by the way Aurora's smile trembled and Niall's eyes seemed go a bit misty they understood. He chewed his lip and looked down at his hands, unsure how to respond when confronted with the fact that maybe his departure from Arcadia Bay had effected them too.

 

He switched to a safer topic, "Where's Ronan?" 

 

When neither of them answered him immediately Adam was forced to look up. Aurora and Niall's fingers were entwined on the table and their faces were turned away from him, from each other, but he could still see the pain that contorted their mouths and clenched their jaws. 

 

"You haven't heard?"

 

"Oh, Adam." 

 

Adam's heart plummeted, the high he had been riding on only served to drop him further and faster. What had he missed? Everything was perfect. The house was in order, Aurora had been smiling, Niall had been peacefully reading the paper, there were sweet smelling blueberry muffins on the table just as there had nearly always been in his childhood. These were supposed to be signs that everything was fixed. _Something couldn't have happened to Ronan._ He cast around the room trying to find what he had missed. The living-dining room was the same comfortable clutter he remembered, the photo wall was finished—then his eyes caught on the mantle. The usual exotic vases and strange knickknacks had been replaced by pictures and dried flowers. He was crossing the room before he could put together a coherent thought.

 

Matthew grinned at him out of dozens of frames, his calm smile so much like Aurora's. At the center of the display was a program folded out of expensive card stock and emblazoned with "In loving memory of Matthew Lynch 1999-2014." Adam felt himself sinking into numbness. In his mind he was on that roof, rain and blood trickling down his face as he stared helplessly at the ledge—but Matthew wasn't there anymore. This wasn't supposed to happen, he'd kept Matthew alive once, he wasn't supposed to be dead now.

 

  
_At least Ronan's face isn't up here next to his._ He felt guilt twisting in his gut at his own insensitivity, but he still clung to the thought like a drowning man to air. As long as Ronan was alive there was hope.

 

"What happened?" The numbness had seeped into his voice.

 

Niall answered, sounding muffled as if he'd buried his face in his hands, "Car accident. Ronan was racing the Mustang I got him for his birthday and the vehicle went over the side of Mt. View Drive." 

 

Adam knew that road. There was a strip just east of Arcadia Bay where the road straightened out and fell at a steady incline for about a quarter of a mile. It was framed by a sheer rock face on one side and nothing but a guard rail on the other. Perilous, but perfect for street racing. 

 

"Where's Ronan?"

 

"In a facility about an hour away."

 

Adam felt cold. It made sense in the grand cosmic scheme that if he saved one person from death and one person from a never ending coma that he would doom two others to take their place. He had been stupid and naive to think it could work any other way. Life was about balance and exchange; nothing was free. He wanted to tear out his hair. All he had wanted was to make life better for Ronan and instead he had destroyed his present and obliterated his chance at a happy future—or perhaps any future.

 

"He's in a coma?"

 

"Oh no, not that—he's in a juvenile detention center." 

 

It shouldn't have lessened the weight pressing on Adam's ribs, but it did. If Ronan was still alive and functioning there was still a chance that he was okay, that this version of life, with all it's tragedy could still be better than life without Niall and Aurora.

 

"Can I see him?"

 

There was a long pause before Aurora answered, all cheer gone from her voice, "I'm sure he would love to see you."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Adam felt better once they were in motion, driving past red-barked evergreens as Aurora took them down the two lane highway at precisely the speed limit. Adam just needed to see Ronan so that he could assess how he was doing and determine if he had made the right choice. Yes, Matthew's death was tragic—Adam felt dizzy and sick if he thought about it—and, yes, it was unfortunate that Ronan was in Juvie, but that wouldn't be forever. It was now clear to Adam that Ronan's life couldn't be completely tragedy free. He was stupid to think it could be otherwise. But, maybe with Niall and Aurora's love and support Ronan could be happier in this timeline—eventually. After all, Ronan was a survivor, like Adam.

 

The morning mist burnt off as they drove, leaving sunlight to warm Adam's window. Aurora tried to make small talk, but Adam couldn't think of anything to say about the beauty of Oregon flora or how mild the autumn had been, so he asked what was actually on his mind.  

 

"How long is his sentence?"

 

Aurora sighed and for once Adam though he could see age creeping into the set of her mouth, "It should have been a year in prison and five years of probation." Adam could here the 'but' in her voice and waited for her to continue. "But he got himself in trouble. There was this other boy involved in the crash. The police said they never caught the person Ronan was racing against; Ronan gave them a name but they said there wasn't sufficient evidence. Ronan was convinced that the other boy had paid off the police, so he took matters into his own hands. They gave him another year for it—thank god they boy survived or it could have ended very poorly for Ronan."

 

"Kavinsky."

 

"Yes," Aurora looked at him sideways across the car and Adam was surprised to realize he'd said the name out loud. "How did you know?"

 

Adam wasn't certain that citing experience from a no longer existent timeline was a good explanation, so he responded vaguely, "He has a reputation." 

 

This also made sense on a cosmic level: Kavinsky had nearly killed Ronan in Adam's previous time line, would have if Adam hadn't intervened, so it made sense that he would nearly kill Ronan again. In his numbness Adam could clearly see how the accident had played out: Ronan and Kavinsky flying down the thin strip of perilous road, Matthew looking terrified but thrilled in the passenger seat of Ronan's car, Kavinsky's own second egging Kavinsky faster. Was there something in the road? Did Ronan's car malfunction? Or did Kavinsky decide it would be funny to swerve into Ronan's lane, forcing Ronan through the ancient guard rail?

 

After that, conversation lulled and they pulled off the highway onto a cracked two lane road in silence.

 

* * *

Aurora handled his check-in, smiling warmly until the guard agreed to add Adam to Ronan's guest list despite the lack of prior notice. He had to leave his bag with Aurora as he was given a thorough pat down and ushered through a door with "Visitation" stenciled in stern capitals. 

 

The visitation room was made for discomfort: metal tables bolted to concrete floors, flimsy plastic chairs, bare walls painted a sickly shade of green in an attempt to add some liveliness to the room. Adam found a table as far from the other visitors as possible. Inmates in charcoal jumpsuits entered from a door across the room. Shifting uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair, Adam chewed a hangnail on his thumb and watched as their faces brightened or darkened as they spotted their guests. 

 

Maybe it was that the baggy jumpsuit made Ronan look smaller than he was, or that the rough gray canvas made him look anemically pale, or it could have been the two inches of limp curls, but it took Adam a moment to recognize Ronan. _Juvie was only temporary_ , he reminded himself, pulling too hard on his hang nail and tasting blood. _Once Ronan is back home he won't look so sick_. Adam's logic did little to ease the aching in his chest.

 

Across the room, Ronan had paused by the door to scan the tables. His gaze slid past Adam once, then again. Adam felt a strange twinge between his ribs when Ronan failed to notice him a third time. He quickly chastised himself. Ronan had no reason to expect to see him here. In this timeline Adam was still just the friend who had left and never came back. It shouldn't bother him that they were little more than strangers again. Only a few days ago, at least in the way Adam experienced time, he'd been putting off seeing Ronan again. Adam exhaled, pushing out his anxiety with the used air and raised a hand to flag Ronan.

 

Ronan caught the movement out of his periphery, and it was with raised brows that he turned. The expression only lasted a second before he shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his jumpsuit and slouched toward Adam. 

 

Under the table Adam splayed his fingers over the knees of his uniform pants and pushed the pads his fingers into his knee caps. He needed the sensation to stay grounded. He reminded himself how angry Ronan had been at their last reunion and resolved to keep his own temper in check. But when Ronan dropped wordlessly into the empty seat he didn't seem angry. He didn't seem anything, face expressionless and body language non-confrontational as he trained his eyes on Adam.  

 

"Hey." Adam tested the waters.

 

"What are you doing here?"

 

Adam kept his tone neutral, waiting for Ronan to betray how he was feeling. "I came back to Arcadia Bay. I went to your house to see you." 

 

Ronan didn't say anything back, just slouched with his arms across his chest. He had new scars; one along his left jaw and another just creeping out of his hair line. 

 

Maybe what Ronan needed was an olive branch—a sign that Adam was still his friend, that he hadn't come to Juvie to gawk. "I missed you," he tried.

 

"I wish you'd come back sooner." It wasn't angry, just matter of fact. 

 

"Me t—"

 

"You were always the voice of reason. Maybe I wouldn't have agreed to that race if you were there." Adam knew from recent experience that he enabled Ronan's bad behavior as often as he curtailed it, but he stayed quiet. This was good, this... emotional honesty. This was a new foundation to build off of. Of course, Ronan was despondent now, but that was because Ronan Lynch was a creature that wasn't meant to be caged. He'd be out of Juvie soon, and the important thing was that all the anger that had been burning him up inside was gone. It was strange to see him so calm. _No, not strange, just different_ , Adam corrected himself. He dug his fingers into his knees to remind himself where he was and why he was there. _This was going to be better for Ronan._  


 

"I'm sorry I wasn't here before," Adam said, hoping it was the right thing to say, "but I'm here now." 

 

Ronan shook his head, but he didn't speak. 

 

"When you get out I'll be here, we can work together to get past this." 

 

Ronan went very still. Adam wouldn't have thought he was moving a second before, but now he was absolutely frozen. **"** Get past this? There is no 'getting past this.'"

 

The ice in Ronan's voice made Adam's stomach drop. He had missed something again. Ronan wasn't angry, but his shoulders were tensing, his posture becoming more closed off. Confusion and frustration simmered in Adam's gut as he calculated how to gently tell Ronan that he was wrong. If he could move past Niall's death he could move past Matthew's.  

 

"I know you loved Matthew," Adam kept his gaze steady on Ronan's face, "but you're strong. You're a survivor. When shitty things happen in life you can't just give up." 

 

"You sound like a bad inspirational poster. I'm not a fucking 'survivor', not any more." 

 

Adam's fingers were digging into his knees now. Why this cold resistance? Why not accept Adam's help or fight back? He ground his teeth together as frustration licked up his belly. Ronan was sometimes hard to read but he had never been this unfathomable. Why did that bother Adam so much?  

 

"But what about Kavinsky? Your mom told me you got back at him for what he did, that doesn't seem very much like someone who is willing to just give up." 

 

"Kavinsky is an asshole. He deserved it—" the iciness hadn't left Ronan's voice, "but that's not why I did it. I attacked him because I needed someone to blame other than myself, but I can't lie to myself anymore, Adam. I killed my  brother. That's not something I can just move on from." 

 

Why was he being so stubborn? It had been an accident. The date on the program for Matthew's funeral was over a year ago—Adam didn't expect Ronan to stop loving Matthew, or to stop mourning, but at some point he needed to start living again. He had Niall, he had Aurora, he had so much more than he realized. "You can't live like this forever," he growled in frustration, wanting to punch the table, or Ronan. 

 

Ronan just shrugged.

 

"So you're just going to give up?"

 

Ronan reached under the collar of his jumpsuit and pulled out a small wooden cross hung on a piece of yarn. As he twisted his wrist Adam noticed a healed scar that was too precise to be from the accident. He felt like the air had been knocked out of him. Adam looked from the scar, to the cross,to Ronan's eyes. He tried to find the spark in the flat blue, the flame that was essentially Ronan, the one that threatened to ignite anything he came into contact with. 

 

"I'm not giving up anymore," Ronan said, fingering the cross around his neck, "the rest of my life is my penitence. I deserve to have to endure it." 

 

Adam felt like the floor was dropping out from below him. He didn't understand how this could be Ronan. His Ronan was so wildly alive sometimes it scared Adam. The Ronan that sat in front of his was already defeated; there wasn't enough spark left in him to fight.

 

"Ronan—"

 

"Adam, did you come here to interrogate me?"

 

"No, I—"

 

"Then let's stop talking about it." 

 

Adam bit his cheek to stifle the angry retort bubbling up his throat. Ronan returned the cross to the inside of his jumpsuit. As the gray fabric was pulled back from Ronan's throat, Adam eyes caught on the exposed expanse of bare skin and he was startled out of his anger. "Your tattoo—"

 

"Huh? I don't have a tattoo."

 

"Oh," the fabric once again covered the naked inch of skin where a tendril of black ink should have been, "it must have been a trick of the light." His response was mechanical, falsely cheerful. His mind was already swirling with all the possibilities of how Ronan's life could have played out. They buffeted him like the voices filling the visitation room and—suddenly Adam understood that he had chosen wrong. In his hubris he'd thought a broken little boy could fix things. He should have known that broken tools only cause more damage.

 

Adam clenched his teeth, forcing his mind to stop spiraling before it got out of control.   

  
_It was only a tattoo_.

 

No, if it was only a tattoo Adam wouldn't feel like the ground was tipping under him. That tattoo was Ronan—pain and passion, joy and sorrow, twisting vines, ravens, and tangled crosses. Some people wore their hearts on their sleeve, Ronan wore his soul on his back. In the timeline Adam came from, Ronan had gotten the tattoo after Niall died. In this new version of reality Matthew's death should have been the catalyst. He should have plenty of time to get inked while he was out on bail, but—Ronan's grief over Matthew wasn't usable, it didn't make him stronger and he couldn't channel it into something beautiful. Adam had thought that Niall's death was the worst thing that could happen to Ronan, but he had been wrong. Being responsible for the death of his innocent, glowing little brother was worse. Ronan was a survivor, but there were some things even he couldn't survive. 

 

Adam had made this happen.

 

What had he done? 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The leather seat was nearly searing through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Aurora twisted the key in the ignition so that the air conditioner hummed to life, but she didn't start the engine. Adam felt her gaze on his face, but it took him a moment before he could gather the will to turn and meet her eyes. 

 

"Niall told me what you told him that day before you left," her voice was harder than Adam had ever heard it. "You were right. Someone did tamper with the car that day. Niall also told me that you had experienced a future in which the accident happened. Is that true?"

 

Adam didn't see a point in lying, "Yes."

 

"In that future, what is Ronan like?"

 

Heat was building behind Adam's eyes. He wouldn't cry in front of Aurora. He closed his eyes and he could see Ronan behind the wheel of the BMW. "He's angry. He misses his parents. He dropped out of high school, but he's smart. He got a tattoo that covers his whole back, but it's beautiful. He gets in fights, and he and Declan are always at each other's throats, but he laughs and he makes jokes. He loves Matthew fiercely, and he has friends that care about him, even if they don't always stick around." He felt his heart aching, homesick for the Ronan that had punched Kavinsky for him, that had kissed him in the Blackwell parking lot. He sighed and opened his eyes. Aurora had a small metal cross that dangled off a string of crystals hanging from her rear view mirror. The crystals scattered little pink shards of light across the dashboard. Adam wondered how she could keep her faith and believe that her son's childhood friend traveled through time to change her fate.

 

"And Matthew?"

 

"He's alive."

 

Aurora made a neat little noise in the back of her throat, the one she made after putting well made pie into the oven or when dusting off her hands after planting a new flower box, "Well then, can you fix this? Can you switch things back to that future?" 

 

Adam sighed, "I hope so. But you know what that means for you and Niall, right?"

 

"I know what I'm asking."

 

Adam nodded, determination drowning out his numbness. If he couldn't fix Ronan's past he could at least fix his own mistake. He would give Ronan his life back. "Drop me off at Blackwell."

 

"Thank you, Adam. I'm glad Ronan has you."

 

* * *

 

When the white faded from his vision his heart was thundering in his ears. He was back in his morning-lit dorm room, his few worldly possessions scattered around in a familiar semblance of order. The photo fell from his hand and he stood so quickly he felt dizzy. He didn't spare a moment to dig through his dorm and see if things really were how he left them; there was only one way to be sure that everything was back to normal.

 

He sprinted out of the dormitory and across the dew slick lawn, attracting stares from students returning to the dorms after early morning athletic practices. For the second time that day—it felt like hours ago although he knew it was nearly the same moment in time—he mounted his bike and pedaled towards Ronan's house as quickly as his protesting limbs would take him.  

 

When he reached the porch he was dripping sweat and exhausted. He barged into the house without knocking and collided with another body in the foyer. Niall? No—"Declan," he panted, "Ronan, where's Ronan?" 

 

Declan's nostrils flared in disapproval, "He's upstairs. The delinquent sleeps 'til twelve unless he thinks there's something he can burn down before—" But Adam was already stumbling up the stairs.

 

Ronan's door banged against the wall when Adam pushed it, and Ronan jolted upright in bed, eyes wild and unfocused with sleep. 

 

"Fucking _fuck_ , Parrish."

 

All it took was three words and the look in Ronan's eyes to floor Adam. 

 

His legs gave and his knees hit the wooden floorboards. He buried his face in his hands as the first sob wracked his body. 

 

"Adam! Shit, Adam, what's wrong." 

 

Ronan was back. Everything was back. He was so relieved that he could hardly breath. Arms wrapped around his shoulders and he let them pull him forward. He felt Ronan's bare shoulder against his lips and he realized he was talking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

 

"Adam, Adam, you're scaring me." 

 

He choked on a breath and allowed himself to collapse further into Ronan, too exhausted to care what was coming out of his mouth. His hands clutched Ronan's back, knowing the tattoo was there, even with his eyes closed.

 

"I can't do this without you." 

 

There was a hand carding through his hair and Ronan's voice in his ear, "Shh, it's alright Adam, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update--I made a playlist for this fic! Check it out here: http://8tracks.com/weneedsomelight/this-is-not-deja-vu


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam and Ronan's investigation uncovers an important link between Noah's disappearance and Matthew's drugging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! As always thank you so much for your patience. I love writing this fic, but my process tends to be a slow one! And a big double thank you to anyone who has commented on previous chapters! I love hearing from you, and every comment gives me an extra burst of motivation. 
> 
> As you may have noticed, this fic now has a set amount of chapters! We'll be barreling toward the end soon and I can't wait to get to some of the great, dramatic scenes yet to come.
> 
> As always, warnings for mention of suicide, rape, abduction. Kavinsky makes an appearance in this one so added warning for awful people and discussion of date rape drugs. Also some mild (I guess?) violence. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I know very little about actual drugs, so if anything I said was incorrect just roll with it :DDDD

Adam woke with a dry mouth and a crick in his neck. He groaned, the light pouring through the windows had lost the soft gray of morning which meant he'd definitely slept through at least one class. The t-shirt he was napping in—another one of Ronan's that had been tossed at him after he'd cried himself into exhaustion that morning—had gotten rucked up as he slept. He pushed it down and struggled to get his heavy limbs to cooperate as he rolled over. 

 

Ronan was sitting against the headboard, knees pulled against his chest as he squinted at the screen of his phone.

 

No, not his phone,  _Noah's_.

 

"Hey," Adam managed, groggily. "You find something?" 

 

Ronan made a disgusted noise and dropped the phone onto the bed between them. "Whelk is a fucking creep, but he wasn't enough of an idiot to leave anything useful." 

 

"There has to be something." Adam dragged the phone towards him and blinked at the screen, focusing his tired eyes. Ronan had left it open to a text conversation with the name "Prof Whelk" at the top.

 

"Good fucking luck finding it." Ronan pushed off the bed. He couldn't seem to keep still: one second he was shoving his hands in his pockets, the next he was chewing at his wristbands. Adam looked down at the phone in his hand, wondering what Ronan had read that had put him so on edge. "I'm going to find us something for lunch," Ronan grumbled, and he slouched out of the room, leaving his strange mood to linger behind him. 

 

Adam tapped the screen back to life and scrolled to the top of the conversation. 

 

Mon, Jun 1

 

**_Hello Noah, the school provided your cell number. I would like to schedule a time to discuss your duties as my TA for next year. I do the majority of my lesson planning in August so I will need to meet with you regularly a few weeks before school starts. Your application stated that you are local and available to begin mentorship over the summer so I trust this will not be a problem._ **

_Hola Prof Whelk! I'm so excited to have this opportunity! My schedule is wiiiide open so just let me know a time and place and I'll be there! :D_

_**I will be in touch via email with a schedule.** _

Tues, Aug 4

_Done and doner! The Ovid packets are on your desk! Hmu if you need anything else this week!_

Wed, Aug 5

**_What is your availability the rest of this week?_ **

_For you Prof I'm free any time ;D_

**_I have a special project for you. I'll need you to drop by my house. I'll send a pin._ **

Mon, Aug 10

**_Where are you right now?_ **

_Dinner w/friends. What's up? I busted out the Declension Worksheets. Copies @ your box!_

**_Can you meet me when you're done?_ **

_At 10?!_

**_Please._ **

**_Remember this is for a grade._ **

_Of course!_

Wed, Aug 12

_i can't make it in today srry_

**_Where are you?_ **

**_Noah, I expect an explanation when you miss our meetings._ **

****

**_Noah?_ **

****

**_Do I need to remind you this course affects your GPA?_ **

****

**_Are you out with friends?_ **

****

**_Don't ignore me._ **

_Srry, was napping. I've got a killer cold and I'm Niquiled out._

**_Please include an explanation in your initial message next time._ **

_will do!!!_

 

Fri, Aug 14

**_yur so beautiful_ **

Sat, Aug 15

_Hey prof, having a little too much fun last night? I think you texted the wrong person hahah XD_

Mon, Aug 17

**_Can you come over now?_ **

_Give me 15._

Tues, Aug 18

**_Can you come over?_ **

_I'm in the dorms, give me five to walk over._

 

**_No, my house._ **

_K_

Thurs, Aug 20

**_Are you free?_ **

_I made other plans today._

_I finished creating the charts for the worksheets, so I figured it would be okay._

_**You didn't tell me you would be busy today.** _

__

_**Are you with Lynch and Gansey? I'm concerned about how you're spending your time, Noah.** _

__

_**Sorry to pry, this whole potential budget-cut situation has been stressful. I don't mean to take it out on you.** _

_It's ok. I know you don't._

**_I feel horrible. I bought some ice cream, strawberry is your favorite, correct? If you have a few moments to swing by tonight I'd like to apologize and to get something off my chest._ **

Fri, Aug 21

_I think I need to take a day off._

 

**_Of course._ **

  
Sat, Aug 22   


**_I hope you know I think of you as more than a student._ **

****

**_I mean that I want us to be friends._ **

****

**_Mentoring you means a lot to me._ **

_Thnx B, I just need a little space. I'll see you Monday._

Sun, Aug 23

**_I appreciate your hard work and I want to keep things professional between us._ **

Mon, Aug 24

**_I am busy this morning. Can we meet tonight instead?_ **

_I have dinner with the fam. Does after 8 work?_

__

**_Yes, that works well for me. No need to bring your laptop, I have things for you to work on at my place._ **

_Hey, we just got seated I'm going to be a little late._

**_This is very important, Noah._ **

_I know, I'll be there around 8:30._

**_Are you on the way?_ **

****

**_Remember what we said about keeping things professional? Punctuality is important._ **

****

**_Noah, when you give me your word I expect you to follow through._ **

****

**_Sorry, its just that there is something really important I want to go over tonight. Get here when you can. I'll be waiting for you._ **

_be there in 5_

 

And that was it. Just an ominous cut off on August 24th. Whatever had happened that night, Noah's phone hadn't made it out of Whelk's house.

 

Adam scrolled back through the conversation, his stomach twisting when he came across Whelk's apparently drunken message from August 14th. Kavinsky was right about Whelk, and there wasn't a chance that Ronan hadn't gleaned the truth by reading the conversation. Adam sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. He backed out of the conversation and skimmed Noah's other texts. His gaze stopped on Gansey's name and he opened the conversation. The most recent message was from five days ago:

 

_I've told Blue all about you. She wants to meet you! If you're out in Virginia I've got a couch for you!_

 

Adam chewed his lip as he skimmed Gansey's dozens of optimistic messages. Three days ago he had been angry when Gansey suggested that Noah had left Arcadia Bay of his own volition. He still thought Gansey was being naive, but the longer he searched the more he wanted to believe that Noah was okay out there. He kept thinking that Noah was just hiding, waiting in the wings for him and Ronan to solve the puzzle of his disappearance, and once they solved it he would jump out and thank them. Maybe it was partially true; maybe Noah had fled Whelk's advances and was holed up somewhere nice. But there was a voice in Adam's head that reminded him the world was an ugly place and boys like Noah didn't usually go missing by choice. No matter what had happened to Noah, Adam was becoming increasingly certain that if he and Ronan didn't go after the truth no one else would. 

 

The door swung open and Ronan shuffled through, his arms overflowing with bowls, a box of cereal, and a gallon of milk. Spoons clinked together as he dropped his findings onto the bed. Adam continued to click through Noah's phone as Ronan tore open the cereal bag and emptied nearly the entire box into the two bowls. Ronan had been right, there wasn't anything concrete enough to act on in Noah's text messages, but maybe there could be something else—a recent transaction on his Starbucks account? An email? 

 

It took Adam a moment to realize Ronan had stopped making noise. He looked up, Ronan was sitting with a dry bowl of cereal resting in between his crossed legs, a plastic cap in one hand as he stared blankly down into the gallon of milk.

 

"Ronan?" 

 

"I need to smoke." Ronan screwed the cap on the milk and pushed it roughly away.

 

Adam turned his attention back to the phone and only vaguely noticed as the mattress sank next to him and a cheap lighter clicked feebly. Noah's Wells Fargo app needed a password to access, but maybe his photos would give some hint as to where he would go if—

 

"Did you know, I used to make fun of him?" Adam jumped, the iPhone nearly slipping out of his grip. Ronan grimaced like the words or the smoke had burned his throat. "I called Whelk his boyfriend because he kept ditching us to make lesson plans. And 'cause he'd started calling him Barry." Ronan was almost unnaturally still now, his head bowed, his fingers delicately cupped around his pipe. Adam studied the hard angles of his profile and wondered if this was what it was like to be on the listening side of a confession box. "One time he was late to Two Whales and I asked if he was blowing Whelk. He got all flushed and angry. I thought he was just tired of the joke—if I had know that bastard was creeping on him—" He struggled for another second to find words then gave up with a frustrated grunt and re-lit his pipe. 

 

Adam chewed his lip. They needed something actionable, something they could do to help so that Ronan could stop blaming himself and Adam could stop feeling helpless. He turned back to Noah's photo gallery.

 

Pale blue eyes smiled up at him from every picture. "Noah loves selfies doesn't he?"

 

"He needs selfies to breath." Fondness curled under the darkness in Ronan's voice. 

 

Adam tapped one of the photos. There was something strange about it: it was just Noah, from the waist up. There was an arm draped over his shoulders but the other person wasn't in the picture.

 

"Hey, who's arm is this?" 

 

Ronan's eyes flicked reluctantly toward the screen. His brows furrowed. "What the fuck?" He snatched the phone from Adam and began flipping rapidly through Noah's photos. "That sick fuck! He edited everyone else out of Noah's photos." He scrolled back to the original photo. "That's Gansey's arm. I'm pretty sure this one was with his family. And I was definitely in this one." He showed Adam a close-up of Noah screwing up his face in a ridiculous pouty expression.

 

Well, that was one reason for Whelk to keep the phone, it was a covetous, secret shrine to Noah. Ronan threw the phone onto the bed. Adam picked it up with numb fingers and the the taste of bile in his throat. He scrolled until he reached the most recent photo: Noah sleeping in the back seat of a car, his head pillowed on a sweater, his eyes closed, and his mouth hanging open like he was snoring. "Is this Gansey's car?" he asked, showing Ronan. 

 

"A Tesla? Ha! Gansey's car actively destroyed the environment. No, that must be his sister's or some shit."

 

"How could you tell it's a Tesla?"

 

"The headrests. I may know fuckall about fixing cars but I haven't been living in a cave."

 

Adam sighed and hit the lock button. This was getting them nowhere other than lost in the depravity of Whelk's obsession. He collapsed back against the pillows. "If only we could figure out who Kavinsky has been selling to. We'd at least have a lead on what happened to Matthew. Maybe it would lead us back to Noah." 

 

Ronan looked up from where he had been poking at the bowl of his pipe, his eyebrows angling dangerously. "Kavinsky?"

 

"He may not have dosed Matthew himself, but he sure as hell sells something that matches the qualities of whatever Matthew was dosed with. He swore Whelk didn't buy any, though." 

 

"How do you know that?"

 

Adam felt heat creeping up his neck. Looking back the whole scene felt a little over-dramatic—not that it really mattered now that no one else could remember it. He sighed, deciding it was best to tell Ronan the truth. "I may have threatened him with a sharp object then rewound so that he didn't remember it happening."

 

Ronan was staring at him like he had never seen him before. Adam fidgeted, suddenly very aware that he was still only wearing Ronan's t-shirt and his ratty boxers.

 

"I don't know why anyone underestimates you, Parrish."

 

Adam laughed awkwardly. He suddenly felt very warm. 

 

"Anyway," Ronan knocked out his pipe onto a crumb covered plate on his nightstand, "that shouldn't be that hard to find out. K keeps a record of all his details in a notebook because he's fucking anal about that shit. If we could get our hands on that we could figure out who he sold to."

 

Adam blinked at Ronan. His brain was already cleaving to this new information, running through ways they could possibly obtain that notebook. "So you're saying all we have to do is steal from the psychotic drug dealer that shot you in a school bathroom?"

  

Ronan was leaning toward him now, eyes sparkling with a hundred ideas that were likely to end up with them in jail. "Okay, so maybe Kavinsky's got a few guns and knives, but you know what we've got?" 

 

A resigned sigh parted Adam's lips, he already knew he was going to say yes to Ronan's idea. They needed Ronan full of reckless, vital energy if they were going to get through this. That didn't mean he couldn't act a little petulant about it. "What?" he groaned.

 

Ronan's mouth was an inch from his when his face lit up in a vicious smile, "A magician."

 

Adam rolled his eyes and closed the space between their lips. He had a weak spot for Ronan when he was like this, alive with the thrill of some illicit plan, itching to do damage. He could feel himself becoming addicted to Ronan, to the casual way Ronan touched him, the way he looked at him like he was worth admiring, the way he met all of Adam's kisses like he was being given something he had been waiting for. Logically Adam knew that it should be a problem to feel his self control slipping away, but he was pretty sure that if he was sinking so was Ronan.

 

Ronan was practically in his lap now, pushing him against the headrest. Adam scrambled for a handhold on Ronan's waist, but then Ronan was slipping out of his grip leaving Adam dizzy and wanting.

"Wha—?"

 

"Let's go."

 

"Ronan, it's mid-afternoon."

 

"So?"

 

Adam felt his face pulling into a frown. "I need to get to school. I've already missed too many classes this morning." 

 

"Just skip it."

 

Did Ronan not realize that going to school was a matter of survival for Adam? He couldn't just skip, not when his chance at anything good in life depended on Blackwell. Not when he had worked himself to the bone to get there. "Ronan—"

 

Ronan was busy shoving his feet into heavy black military-style books, but something in Adam's voice made him bristle. He reeled on Adam, laces still untied. "We're trying to figure out who drugged and abducted my brother. Sorry if I think that's more important than learning how to solve for X or about some war that happened seven hundred years ago."

Adam felt his exterior hardening, his voice freezing over. He wasn't sure why he'd expected them to stop fighting just because they had kissed a few times. "Kavinsky's going to be at school anyway." 

 

"Fat chance."

 

Adam set his jaw. This wasn't something he was going to back down on. "We can go tonight. I have to do a few oil changes but I can be done by five." 

 

If Ronan kept working his jaw like that he was going to grind his molars to nubs. "Fine," he eventually spat. Adam wasn't completely convinced he wouldn't go off and try to get the notebook from Kavinsky on his own, but that was Ronan's decision to make. Right now Adam had to worry about how to get his morning's absence excused. 

 

"You don't have to worry about taking me to Blackwell. I'll bike."

 

Adam climbed out of bed and kicked through a pile of clothes at the foot of Ronan's be to find the Blackwell uniform he had been wearing when he arrived that morning. The shirt was rumpled, but he smoothed out the creases as best he could. He ignored Ronan as he gathered his things back into his bag, so he was surprised when a bowl of cereal was shoved into his hands. 

 

"Here," Ronan grunted, "you can eat in the car." 

 

* * *

 

Five minutes to five the BMW rolled into the oil spotted lot out front of Bernie's Auto Shop. Adam noticed it over the roof of the station wagon that he'd been tuning up and his stomach constricted. He had been arming himself for the past hour, preparing himself to face Ronan's irritation, and his resolve was set even if his stomach was in knots. He didn't want to fight with Ronan, but he wouldn't apologize for not sacrificing his future.

 

"I'm off, Bernie," he called over the muffled, crackling voice of some sports announcer. He scrubbed his hands in the grimy sink before stripping out of his coveralls and hanging them in his locker near the back of the shop. Then he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed out of the shop toward whatever discomfort inevitably awaited him in Ronan's car.

 

When he yanked the door open the first thing that registered was the tantalizing smell of greasy food. He dropped into his seat and carefully placed his bag on the floor, buying himself a few more seconds before he had to make eye contact with Ronan. 

 

"Here," a cardboard tray of fries and chicken strips was shoved into his lap. 

 

Adam clamped down on the sudden, eager rumble threatening to leave his stomach, "Ronan, you don't have to keep buying food for me." 

 

"It's not charity. It's an apology."

 

That took Adam by surprise. He looked up and met Ronan's gaze. He was chewing the inside of his cheek and there was a crease in between his brows that Adam had only seen when Ronan was worried about Matthew. "An apology for what?"

 

"Are you really going to make me talk about this?" Ronan ran a hand over his short hair. Adam watched him in confusion until Ronan released a frustrated breath and dropped his hands onto the steering wheel.  "I fucked up this morning. I didn't mean to—I know that school's important to you." His words dried up and Ronan glared down at his hands like they should have helped him. 

 

Adam blinked at him, then at the box of food in his lap like it might explain why Ronan wasn't yelling at him. Was he really not angry any more? That's not how anger worked. It was supposed to simmer under the surface, never fully extinguished, until it had an excuse to reemerge with full force. But Ronan sounded genuinely apologetic. He was even glaring at his hands like he wished he could catch them on fire, just like he used to do when he was embarrassed back when they were kids. The knots in Adam's stomach slowly worked themselves loose.

 

"Thanks—I mean—Is that what I'm supposed to say? I don't have much experience with this stuff." 

 

Ronan side-eyed him. How had Adam never noticed how long his eyelashes were? He still looked stricken, but apparently Adam had given him enough hope to put the cocky lilt back in his voice, "You could just kiss me."

 

That Adam knew how to do. He steadied the cardboard box into his lap and carefully leaned across the center console. Ronan met him half way. The first brush of lips was gentle—Adam wanted Ronan to know that he wasn't angry anymore either, that he understood why Ronan had been upset—but Ronan pushed into the kiss, cupping Adam's jaw, making his resistance turn to jelly. 

 

By the time Ronan pulled back to press hesitant, exploratory kisses across Adam's jaw, Adam's skin was tingling, his breathing was uneven. The peeling fence that surrounded Bernie's lot swam in front of Adam's half lidded eyes and he was abruptly reminded where they were. 

 

"Ronan—ah—" he stuttered as Ronan's teeth grazed his earlobe, "we should probably be going." 

 

"Right. Yeah, you're right." Ronan jolted back, face flushed, eyes over-bright. Adam wondered if he'd forgotten where they were for a moment too. Ronan reached distractedly for the key in the ignition, completely missing it on his first attempt. Adam averted his eyes, picking at the the box of fries to keep his gaze from returning to Ronan's face, the tantalizing angle of his jaw, his lips that were a shade pinker than they were before they had kissed, and— Adam shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. After a few agonizing seconds , Ronan put the car in reverse and they pulled away from Bernie's, a new type of unresolved tension crackling between them. 

 

* * *

 

Kavinsky was, in Ronan's words, a rich fuck who lived in a shiny white McMansion on a cliff south of town, so they had to skirt around the bay part of Arcadia Bay to get there. Adam used the ride to scarf down French fries and finesse his plan for getting in and out of Kavinsky's house without getting shot.

 

They were speeding down Harbor Road when Ronan slammed on the breaks, causing Adam to lurch into his seatbelt. 

 

"What the actual fuck?" Ronan exclaimed, gaping out the driver-side window. Startled, Adam peered around him. At first the hulking gray shapes didn't make any sense. Had rocks suddenly sprouted where previously there had only been flat beach? When his brain finally made sense of what was in front of him he pressed a hand to his mouth. A trio of beached whales lay lifeless on the sand, dozens of gulls pecking at their drying flesh. 

 

Snow, an eclipse, dead birds, and now beached whales—was Arcadia Bay dying? Visions of a cyclone ravaging the bay flashed in Adam's brain. He hadn't had another vision for days. He had hoped that it was symbolic, but as he gazed past Ronan at the giant carcasses an eerie sense of foreboding filled his lungs. 

 

"Maybe this is the end of the world," Ronan mused. Someone behind them honked and Ronan stuck his hand out the window to flip them off. 

 

"You think so?" 

 

"Well if it is," Ronan made his voice high and breathy and his hand found Adam's on the center console. "I'm glad I get to spend it with you."

 

"Fuck off," Adam shook Ronan's hand off and reached for his messenger bag, "and wave that car to go around us. I want to get a picture." He dug his camera out while Ronan waved his middle finger out of the window again. 

 

Adam considered the shot, the light was good, but they were a bit far. He mumbled an apology and leaned over Ronan so that he could brace the camera on the far window sill. If he angled it just right he would be able to get the closer whale's lifeless, staring eye. He took the shot and pulled the camera back. 

 

"That's some macabre shit, Parrish." 

 

"Tell that to the dozens of people that will have posted selfies with them by the end of the day."

 

"Touche," Ronan grinned and punched the gas, speeding them away from the beach and the dead whales.

 

* * *

 

The wind rumpled Adam's hair as soon as he stepped out of the car. The elements were wilder up here, the wind harsher. The cliff they were on looked over Arcadia Bay from the south, and Adam was pretty sure that if he stood behind Kavinsky's house he would be able to see straight across to the lighthouse on the north side of the bay. He caught Ronan looking at him across the roof of the car and pretended not to notice. If he turned into the wind and put a little too much thought into running a hand through his hair Ronan didn't need to know.

 

Ronan knocked their shoulders together as they started up the front path that wound across manicured grass toward Kavinsky's front door. "Hey, let me talk to K," he said, voice low despite the ridiculous distance between the street and Kavinsky's house. "We speak the same language." 

 

Adam snorted, "The last two times you and Kavinsky talked it escalated to violence within three minutes." 

 

"Like I said," A devilish smirk quirked Ronan's lips, "we speak the same language." 

 

"I honestly don't know how you managed not to die before I was here to save your sorry ass." 

 

"Well, you're here now so that's not really a concern anymore is it?" 

 

"You're reckless." 

 

"Don't lie, you find it cute."

 

"You're the worst."

 

"But you like me anyway."

 

They reached Kavinsky's black lacquered front door and Adam forced everything from his mind but the mission at hand. Ronan jabbed the doorbell. No response. After a minute he tried again. Still nothing. 

 

"He's probably setting up for the party."

 

Party? Adam had forgotten that tomorrow was Henry Cheng's coveted student body party, which meant Kavinsky was throwing an after party. Something regretful twinged in his chest when he remembered that it was also the night the winner of the Everyday Heroes Contest would be announced. His photo was still in the messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

 

Adam's thoughts were interrupted by a racket on the other side of the door. 

 

"I swear to God, Skov, I'm going to rip your balls off and shove them down your—Lynch!" Kavinsky's tone turned oily as he pulled open the door and took in the sight of Ronan on his door step. "What a lovely  surprise." He propped himself against the door frame, gold chains shifting against each other as he crossed his arms against his bare chest. He squinted in the light, but Adam could tell his eyes were hazy, pupils blown wide the way they had been in the bathroom.

 

"I see you brought your bitch. You change your mind about that threesome or you gonna try to kill me again?" He flashed his teeth, gaze still tracing predatorily over Ronan. 

 

It was amazing how quickly Kavinsky was able to get under Adam's skin. "I apologized, didn't I?"

 

Ronan nudged Adam. The movement didn't escape Kavinsky's gaze and his smile curled all the more dangerously. "Better teach your dog to heel, Lynch, before he gets himself put down." His attention shifted to Adam. "Let's see, how about I hold a gun to your head and we'll call it even?" There was more enthusiasm than actual violence in his words, but Kavinsky clearly wasn't in a mood to play nice.

 

"C'mon, K, we're just here to buy."

 

"Oh golly gee, a customer! Where are my manners!" Kavinsky sneered. "Come right in, and we'll see if I can fix you up with something to fix Lynch's lack of fucking balls." 

 

Kavinsky's entryway was glossy white paint, black marble, and some sort of mod tangle of metal tubes that Adam assumed was supposed to resemble a chandelier. It was stark, austere, at once expensive and uninspired.

 

"You're in luck, I've stocked up for tomorrow so the pharmacy is overflowing." Kavinsky led them down the long foyer, past a staircase with chrome banisters, and through a dozen more white walled rooms, each sparsely outfitted with dark furniture and more flat-screen TVs and sound systems than anyone could ever need. As expensive as it all looked, there were also scuffs on the baseboards and snags in the plush upholstery as if the house had already been through one too many of Kavinsky's parties.  

 

Adam tried to memorize the the labyrinth of rooms Kavinsky lead them through, but he could feel himself getting turned around. He snuck a glance at Ronan. He looked composed, at ease almost. He caught Adam staring at him and gave him a tight lipped smile. Adam let it loosen the creeping anxiety in his chest.

 

Then they stepped into a wide, windowed room. This room was different than the others, there was black shag carpet littered with empty chip bags, beer cans, and game controllers. DVD cases and magazines crowded the coffee table. The air smelled of booze and pizza. The last rays of day light poured through the windows, painting everything an eerie shade of orange. Two boys lounged on a u-shaped, black leather sectional. One, he was lanky with pale skin and hair that was bleached at the tips but ginger near the roots, was sucking on a bottle of Jack Daniels. The other, he was tall and built with dark skin and a blood red beanie pulled down over his hairline, was sunk into a pile of pillows flipping a lighter on and off and watching the flame with a bored expression. Both looked up with interest as Kavinsky led them into the room. Adam felt like he was walking into a den of lions.

 

"Proko, Swan, you know Lynch. This dick wart is his girlfriend. You know the rules, hands off unless you can get Lynch wasted enough to share." The other two boys laughed, but Adam wasn't certain if Kavinsky's words were a joke or a threat. Kavinsky dropped onto the sofa and began fiddling with a baggy of white powder. Adam watched as he dumped some onto a cleared off patch of the glass coffee table and flicked out his butterfly knife to cut the powder into lines. "Sit down, fuck face, you're making me jumpy." Kavinsky said, not looking up from his work. 

 

Adam preferred to remain standing, but he knew better than to argue with Kavinsky when he was holding a knife, so he followed Ronan's lead toward a stretch of empty couch across from Kavinsky.

 

"Nuh-uh, Lynch," Kavinsky called patting the cushion next to him, "you sit here. We need to talk business don't we?" 

 

There was only space for one person next to Kavinsky. A muscle near Adam's eye twitched, but all he could do was shoot Ronan a look warning him to be careful and continue to the far side of the couch alone.

 

"Hey, you're in Watson's fourth period European history."

 

Startled, Adam turned his attention to the boy sprawled next to him. It took him a moment to realize he did in fact recognize the face below the beanie. Kavinsky had introduced him as Swan, but Adam had only ever heard him referred to as Garrett Swanson. He'd given a presentation on early French colonialism a few days ago. In his neatly turned out Blackwell uniform Adam hadn't pegged him as the type to get involved with Kavinsky. Were they all high-functioning addicts?

 

"You're in hist with us?" Adam turned with even greater consternation to the bad dye job lounging next to Kavinsky. He gestured with his bottle of Jack, causing the amber liquid to slosh audibly. "How come I don't recognize you?"

 

"Prokopenko," Swan's voice was laced with amusement, "you've been to that class once." 

 

"Riiiiiight," Prokopenko sunk back into the couch with a pleased grin.

 

"Proko's trying to pull a Lynch, get himself expelled," Kavinsky chuckled like Ronan getting expelled was an inside joke.

 

With a start Adam realized he had gotten distracted. His eyes darted to Kavinsky's empty hands, and then quickly around the surrounding area until he spotted the knife atop of white leather notebook. The blade was dusted in a fine layer of white powder.

 

"It's hard as fuck to get expelled when Daddy Dearest keeps upping his charitable donation," Prokopenko whined.

 

Adam felt sick with the lackadaisical attitude of rich boys who threw away their opportunities because they had nothing better to do. As he gritted his teeth against the scalding frustration creeping up his throat Ronan caught his eye. He tilted his head, his eyes flicking toward the coffee table. Adam followed Ronan's gaze to the knife, or rather the white leather bound notebook underneath it. So that was the notebook they were looking for? Adam nodded as subtly as he could. Message delivered. Ronan relaxed back into the couch and they returned their attention to the conversation Kavinsky was having with Prokopenko.

 

"There's always arson," Kavinsky sing-songed. 

 

"Dude, limit it to misdemeanors, please."

 

"Fuck, Swan, you know we don't do the big stuff. Wanna hit?" Kavinsky gestured to the Class B felony piled in neat little lines on his table. 

 

Apparently mollified, Swan stood and shuffled around to Kavinsky's side of the table. Kavinsky spread his knees so there was space for Swan to kneel over the lines he's made. He twirled one of his chains absently and watched Swam with a smirk that made Adam wonder what sort of perverse satisfaction he got from making his friends prostrate themselves between his legs. Unruffled, Swan straightened up, eyes half-shuttered as he rode the instant high. Traces of white powder below his nose was stark on his dark skin.  

 

"Proko?" 

 

"I'm on a liquid diet until the sun goes down." 

 

"You're a man of principals. Lynch? Parrish? You know I don't usually put out for free, but I'm feeling generous. Consider this a pre-pre-game for tomorrow." Adam didn't believe Kavinsky's altruism for a moment. There was a slippery edge to Kavinsky's voice, like he wanted nothing more than to get Adam and Ronan incapacitated. 

 

"We're good," Ronan answered for both of them. 

 

"Well then, more for me." Kavinsky leaned over the remaining lines. He straightened up a few seconds later rubbing beneath his nose and hissing air through his teeth.

 

"So, business. What are we talking, boys? E, K, Speed? Trip? Whack? Poppers, pills, tabs?" 

 

Ronan's casually surly expression clouded into actual displeasure. Adam knew didn't like this part of the plan, but they needed to figure out what Kavinsky called the drug he sold to Matthew's attacker or the notebook would be useless. Jaw tense and teeth grating, Ronan said, "We need a sedative. Something strong enough to keep someone knocked out for a while."

 

One second Kavinsky was reclined in a drug induced haze, the next he was in Ronan's face, anger flaring as quickly as a flame to propane. "What the fuck are you playing at, Lynch?" Adam tensed, preparing to rewind. The knife was only an arms length away from Kavinsky, if he made a move in the wrong direction Adam would be ready. "How many times do I have to tell you I didn't fucking dose—" 

 

"What's this now?" Swan interrupted, taking a spectator's delight in the sudden outburst. Clearly Kavinsky hadn't shared Ronan's accusations with his friends. 

 

"That's not it, man. I told you I wanted to buy didn't I?" 

 

Kavinsky grabbed the front of Ronan's shirt and Ronan tensed for a fight. It would be a matter of seconds until Ronan's resolution not to punch Kavinsky when they needed him to cooperate would snap. Proko wasn't helping, squealing a string of delighted "oh shit"s over the lip of his bottle. 

 

"Look, Joseph, we're not here to accuse you of anything," Adam intervened. Kavinsky's dagger-like stare darted to him. If Adam knew anything about Kavinsky, it was that the more fucked up of a plan Adam suggested the more likely he was to be on board, so Adam arranged his features into a bored expression and spun the lie he had been constructing in the back of his mind, "I've been feeling experimental recently. I'm... curious." 

 

"I don't care if you're fucking Curious George, if this fucker asks me one more time—" 

 

"Shut up, K." Swan flapped a hand at Kavinsky, "I wanna hear what he's curious about." He turned a lewd grin Adam's direction. "So, do you want Lynch to fuck you when you're drugged into unconsciousness or visa versa?"

 

Adam's lips curled, please that at least one of them had fallen for the bait. "The first."

 

"H-o-l-y shit!" Proko screeched turning 'holy' into a four syllable word.

 

"Ronan Fucking Lynch, you kinky fuck." Kavinsky released Ronan's shirt to slap a hand down on his shoulder.

 

Ronan flinched, still gaping at Swan with a look of confused horror. "What? No!"

 

"C'mon Ronan," Adam cut him off calmly, "there's no use hiding it, I mean they already know what we're buying, they might as well know what we're buying it for." Ronan's jaw clenched but he seemed to catch on to Adam's ploy. Adam felt a pang of guilt—Ronan didn't do deception and lies, but that was why Adam was there, to do the lying for both of them. He leveled a stare at Kavinsky, "So are you going to sell to us or not?"

 

Kavinsky's nose twitched as he considered Adam. "I've got some roofies, or some GHB."

 

"You know that's not what we're asking for, Kavinsky. We want the untraceable stuff."

 

"Fine." He pushed off the couch steadying himself with Ronan's shoulder before stalking toward the door, "Let me check the pharmacy. Swan, entertain our guests."

 

As Kavinsky disappeared from sight Proko made a popping sound with the mouth of his bottle, "So you guys coming tonight? It's gonna be _fucking sick_. You should come, bring your friends, bring your friends' friends. Oh, hey, Lynch you should bring your brother. We had a blast last time. Ow—" A pillow collided with his face.

 

Swan, already reaching for a second pillow, hissed, "Dude, the kid tried to kill himself like _this week_! Ignore him. We think the E finally ate away something important in his brain." This second part was  for Ronan, but Swan didn't bother looking over as he jerked the pillow towards Prokopenko, faking him out and making him flinch.

 

"Fuck you, Swan!" Proko massaged his nose. "I'm just being fucking friendly."  

 

"Seeing your ugly face would make him off himself for good." 

 

Ronan had been agitated before, but now he was barbed wire, bristling where he sat and waiting for Swan or Prokopenko to make one wrong move so he could eviscerate them.

 

"Hey, Swan," Ronan's voice lashed like a whip. Adam resigned himself to a fight. "You didn't see who Matthew left with that night did you?"

 

Adam blinked in surprise. When had Ronan Lynch learned restraint?  

 

"Nah," Swan shoved the pillow he had been threatening Prokopenko with behind his head and sank back, "I didn't even see the fight—heard I missed a fucking show—but he was talking to some chick earlier in the night."

 

"Who?"

 

"Shit man, I don't know. There's not exactly name tags at this thing. She was hot though. College girl maybe? Blonde."

 

Ronan made a dissatisfied noise.

 

"That's old news though. I wanna hear about this kinky shit you've got going on." 

 

"Oh-ho-ho," Prokopenko perked up at the change of topic, "so tell us Perry—"

 

"Parrish."

 

"Yeah, whatever. Is Lynch really so bad in bed that you'd rather be unconscious?" 

 

If Adam had any doubts about the status of Ronan's virginity the constipated look on his face would have cleared them up. Adam only had a handful of sloppy, awkward hook-ups before Ronan, but at least he didn't look like he was about to explode when someone talked about him getting laid. It didn't help that Swan was wheezing with laughter, gripping his stomach like Prokopenko's jab was the epitome of comedy. 

 

Adam shot Swan a cool look— it didn't shut him up, but Adam had to remain composed if they wanted Kavinsky and his crew to believe them. "Just the opposite, actually. We wouldn't be here if he wasn't worth my time."

 

"Shit, man. Shit." Swan managed through his laughter, "You know I always heard it was the repressed ones you had to look out for, but shit." 

 

Adam never thought he'd be so grateful to see Kavinsky. Kavinsky sauntered across the room, his tattooed knuckles wrapped around the handle of a metal tool box. Leather creaked as he dropped down next to Ronan, their thighs so close together he was practically in Ronan's lap. He shot a taunting look Adam's direction. Adam's fingers instinctively dug into the couch, but he identified the flare of anger before it could take hold. He wouldn't let Kavinsky bait him. He counted backward from ten and revisited his plan to steal the notebook: once Kavinsky was done logging their purchase, Adam would grab the notebook and put it in his bag. With the notebook safely out of sight on his person he could rewind. Kavinsky wouldn't remember seeing Adam take the notebook and he could walk out of Kavinsky's house with a record of all of Kavinsky's recent sales.

 

When he tuned back in Kavinsky was detailing his inventory to Ronan. 

 

"I've got a fucking assload of prescription sleep aids—the strong shit. And your run of the mill roofies..."

 

Kavinsky encroached on Ronan's space with each successive description of his products. Ronan hardly seemed to notice, brow creasing as Kavinsky plied him with facts about side effects and duration. Bored, Prokopenko had returned to getting sloshed and Swan was pouring out another line of coke. Adam picked irritably at a snag in the arm rest. Was Kavinsky intentionally wasting their time? None of the drugs he described sounded like what they were looking for, they were all either too weak or common enough to be easily discovered in a drug test. Kavinsky was holding out on them. 

 

"What's this?" Ronan held a vile of clear liquid between thumb and forefinger. 

 

Kavinsky plucked the vile out of Ronan's fingers, lips twisting into a sneer. "Whoa there, tiger. You don't want to mess with Angel Tears. That's some high-grade, medical induced coma shit. I'm pretty sure you're lady boy doesn't want to be dead to the world for twelve hours."

 

Adam could see his own disgust reflected in the way Ronan's shoulders stiffened. Prescription sleep aids were one thing, they had a legitimate use. Even GHB was sometimes voluntarily taken as a party drug, but roofies and Angel Tears? There didn't seem to be a purpose for those outside of incapacitating someone so they couldn't fight as they were kidnapped, or raped, or killed. Kavinsky had probably sold these things to dozens of people, and Adam would bet they weren't buying under the pretense of consensual somnophelia. 

 

Ronan cleared his throat but his words still came out raspy, "Do you drink it?"

 

"Nah, inject only. Look, if you're wanting something more boutique I've got this." He pulled out a baggy with a dozen little blue pills. "I get them from guy down in Portland, small batch. I used to sell them as a party drug because for thirty minutes you feel on top of the world. You can fuck anyone, fight anyone, you can steal a gun from a police officer, trust me—Proko has."

 

There was a slurred giggle from Prokopenko's corner.

 

"That doesn't sound like what we're looking for." 

 

"Oh, but it is. See, after the high you crash hard. I'm usually out cold in forty-five minutes, asleep like a fucking rock. Now I sell it as a sleep aid, a high and a nap all in one. Who doesn't want that?"

 

Ronan caught Adam's eye and a silent communication passed between them. "We'll take two."

 

"Righty-fucking-o!" Kavinsky transfered two pills two a smaller baggy before locking the toolbox and setting it on the coffee table.

 

Adam edged forward as far as the sofa would allow. Ronan had done his part by getting Kavinsky to give them the names of the drugs most likely used on Matthew, now it was Adam's turn. Crinkled bills swapped hands and Ronan shoved the pills in his pocket. Kavinsky reached for the notebook, sliding the butterfly knife off the the cover and onto a pile of magazines. Adam tensed, ready to grab the notebook as soon as Kavinsky was done. 

 

"You that fucking eager, Perry?" Prokopenko's drunken laughter broke Adam's concentration. He turned to look at the boy who was sprawled lazily over a corner of the sectional, eyes half lidded. "You look like you're gonna jump Lynch right fucking here." 

 

Everyone's eyes were on him now. Adam felt his jaw clenching, heard his heart pounding in his ears. "What can I say," he drawled, "I'm impatient." 

 

Laughter echoed around the room. Adam didn't want to consider what it meant that he was so good at pretending to relate to these vicious, conscienceless boys. He forced his muscles to relax, sank back into the couch just enough to appear nonthreatening, and watched Kavinsky entered the transaction in his notebook.

 

"Well boys," Kavinsky snapped the notebook shut and tossed it onto the table, "I'd say it was my pleasure but it's clearly yours."

 

It was simple really, just grab the notebook, hide it, and rewind. If he wasn't dramatic about it he might be able to rewind before Kavinsky even noticed what he'd done. He pried himself off of the sunken-in sofa, as casual as if he were standing to leave, and reached across the table. As his fingers tightened on the smooth leather, a tattooed hand darted into his vision. He jerked the notebook away, but Kavinsky was reaching for something else.  

 

"You fucking cunt!" 

 

"K, put down the—" 

 

"What the—"

 

Adam reeled back. He needed to put the notebook in his bag. If it was still out when he rewound Kavinsky would see. The fingers of his left hand scrambled with his bag, there was the sound of a scuffle on the other side of the table but he was focused on flipping over the stiff fabric. Why hadn't he undone the buckle? How had he never noticed that if he kept too many pens in the top zippered pocket it was difficult to open with one hand? A howl of pain rent the air and Adam's head jerked up.

 

The knife was buried in Kavinsky's thigh and Ronan's hand was wrapped around the hilt.

 

"You, you fucking stabbed him!" Proko shrieked, legs flailing as he tried to scramble backward away from Ronan and Kavinsky. His back ran into the backrest and he kept going, pushing up on to the back of the couch and pressing himself against the wall. 

 

"Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," Ronan pulled his hand back leaving the knife buried in Kavinsky's leg. He was nearly as pale as Kavinsky as he looked wildly around the room. 

 

Adam was frozen as blood soaked through Kavinsky's white jeans, "You stabbed him?!"

 

"He was reaching for the knife!"

 

"You didn't have to—"

 

"Just rewind!" 

 

Adam's brain snapped back into gear. All he had to do was lift his hand and he could make this go away. He switched the notebook to his left hand, but before he could get into position fingers clamped around his wrist.

 

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Adam hadn't realized how tall Swan was until he was bearing down on him. Adam tried to shrink back but it wasn't enough. It was never enough. His mouth flooded with the memory of bile and blood. He could feel the bones in his wrist threatening to snap.

 

"GET AWAY FROM HIM, LYNCH!" Swan's mouth moved, but his voice was Robert Parrish's.

 

"Adam! Adam rewind." 

 

Panic blocked Adam's wind pipe. Swan was going to hurt him. He shouldn't fight back, he shouldn't move, everything would just be worse.

 

"Adam!"

 

Adam wanted to shrink inside himself, to hide until it was over—but there was still part of his brain that remembered where he was. He couldn't give in. Not when Ronan needed him. Not when Kavinsky was bleeding out five feet away. With what felt like a Herculean effort he shoved the notebook into the waist band of his pants and pulled his shirt over it.

 

"C'mon Adam—" 

 

"Stay the fuck back," Swan bellowed. "Proko you gotta call and ambulance." 

 

Swan was holding onto the back of his shirt now too, twisting it so it tightened around his throat. Across the room Kavinsky's howls were getting raspier and Ronan was pushing his hair back of his forehead. Adam saw almost in slow motion as Kavinsky's bloody hand found the hilt of the knife. Adam wanted to shout at him not to but it was a waste of time—as long as he rewound it wouldn't matter. 

 

Kavinsky yanked the knife out and arterial spray shot upward. Ronan, leaning over Kavinsky, caught the brunt of it. He lurched back, blood dripping off his face. 

 

"You idiot!" he bellowed whipping blood off his mouth, "you don't remove the knife!"

 

The advice was too little too late. Kavinsky wouldn't be conscious for much longer now, but the spray of blood had given Adam the distraction he needed. He jerked his arm upward, throwing Swan off, and begged time to go backward. 

 

His hearing was immediately consumed in a blessed rush of wind. He watched, still unable to fully shake his shock, as blood jumped into the air and flew back into the wound where Kavinsky stoppered it with the knife. Swan staggered backward away from Adam. Prokopenko crawled spider-like down from the back of the couch, limbs flailing in reverse. The blood receded until Ronan's hand was once again wrapped around the hilt and he jerked the knife out of Kavinsky's uninjured leg.

 

When the knife was back on the table and Kavinsky was relaxed against the couch Adam dropped his hand.  Time rushed forward again and Adam sagged, winded. Out of the corner of his eye he could almost still see phantom blood dripping off the couch cushions.

 

"Adam?" Ronan and Kavinsky were looking at him. Kavinsky in confusion, Ronan in concern. Adam realized he was still standing when, for consistency's sake, he should have been sitting. He glanced at Proko and Swan, neither of them were looking at him like he had done something impossible.

 

"Dude, you look like you just saw Lynch's mom naked."

 

"I'm fine."

 

Ronan wasn't convinced. He was up and at Adam's side in a second. "You sure you're alright?"

 

"Yeah, I'm just not feeling well." Ronan carefully twined his fingers with Adam's and Adam leaned into the feeling.

 

"Oooo, second thoughts?" Proko jeered from the couch. Ronan flipped him off. 

 

"Well, we're done here," Ronan searched Adam's eyes to see if it was true and Adam nodded, "so I'll take you home." 

 

Ronan lead him toward the door they came in through and Adam followed gratefully, still too rattled to take charge. He clung to the strap of his bag with his free hand, hoping it would keep the notebook from jutting out obviously.  

 

"Thanks, K. I'll see you guys later." Ronan called behind them.

 

Had they really pulled this off? Once they were out of Kavinsky's house they would have one more piece in this huge horrible puzzle.

 

"Use protection!" Kavinsky hollered after them. "Or don't. I don't fucking care." 

 

* * *

Adam kept himself together until were in the car. He collapsed into the passenger seat, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. His body felt numb.

 

"Adam?" There was a hand on the back of his neck. Fingers massaged small circles into the constant ache at the base of his skull. "Adam, what happened in there?" 

 

Adam dropped his hands and was surprised when the first sound out of his mouth was a weak laugh. "You stabbed him."

 

"What?"

 

"You stabbed Kavinsky." 

 

Ronan was silent a moment. His fingers continued working at Adam's neck and Adam found himself helplessly sinking into the touch, his heart rate finally slowing. 

 

"Did he deserve it?"

 

Adam attempted a laugh again but it came out a strangled sigh, "Yeah, I mean he went for the knife first. But after you stabbed him he pulled the knife out and—" he made a small exploding gesture with his hand. 

 

"Fucking hardcore."

 

"Trust me, you're lucky you don't remember." When he blinked he could still see Ronan's horrified, blood soaked face.

 

Ronan started the car and Adam almost whimpered when he had to remove his hand from Adam's neck. They pulled away from Kavinsky's house, the poorly paved road crunching under their wheels. 

 

"You got it, right?"

 

Adam answered by pulling up the hem of his shirt and removing the notebook that was still tucked safely in his waistband. "Of course I did."

 

"Atta' boy."

 

Adam felt his mind coming back to equilibrium. He took a steadying breath and clicked on the overhead light so he could examine the notebook.

 

"They're in code," he moaned, shuffling through pages and pages of Kavinsky's surprisingly neat scrawl. Frustration itched in his finger tips and he had to fight down the urge to rip out a page or throw the notebook. After all the effort they put in, after the lies, after having to watch Ronan stab Kavinsky, they still didn't have a name. He stared blankly down at a random page. Each transaction was spaced out on its own line in a consistent format: Date / Time / Codename / Location / Product Purchased / Total Cost, so they looked like this:

 

9-14 / 5:11PM / Red Supra / Home / 3g / Coke / $200.00

 

"What do you mean code?" 

 

"He uses some code involving cars. Their names aren't in here." 

 

Ronan's brow furrowed and he glared out the windshield as he slowed the car. "Wait let me see that." Gravel crunched as he jerked the car into park on the side of the road and reached for the book. He flipped to the most recent page, and Adam watched as his glare melted into something sharp and pleased. 

 

"That idiot didn't use a code." He jabbed at the last line on the page. "He names his customers after the car they drive." 

 

Adam looked at the line he was pointing to.

 

10-14 / 3:35PM / Silver BMW / home / 2 Bluebells / $40

 

  
_Of course._ That should have occurred to Adam. He must be too rattled from the situation at Kavinsky's; he wasn't thinking straight.

 

Then Ronan flipped back a few pages and pointed at another line:

 

9-23 / 10:00PM / Silver BMW / 2 whales / 7g top shelf bud / $150

 

"Kavinsky is your weed dealer?!"

 

Ronan just shrugged, "He has the only good shit in town."

 

Adam rolled his eyes, he really shouldn't be surprised.

 

"Hey, in my defense, he hadn't tried to kill me yet." 

 

"Unbelievable."

 

"Thanks, you too." Ronan teased, starting the car again. "Anyway, look for Bluebell, or roofies, or that freaky angel shit in there. We'll at least know what the person he sold to drives."

 

Adam spared Ronan a final disbelieving look and started flipping through the pages, checking the dates just before Matthew had been kidnapped.

 

The majority of Kavinsky's business seemed to be in weed and coke, but every few lines there was a strangely named drug that he could only assume was some sort of designer party drug. Adam's knowledge of illicit substances was sadly lacking. Drugs had never seemed like a useful thing to know about—just the opposite. As far as he knew even the neighbors in his trailer park stuck to cigarettes and booze. Well, there was occasional resident that would start to look sickly and start to act crazy. When they inevitably took a baseball bat to another trailer or got arrested for breaking and entering his mother would spend a week railing at him about Methamphetamine. She promised that if he was ever found using she would have his father beat his hide—she never acknowledged that he did that anyways. 

 

Adam's gaze caught halfway down a page on a Black Mustang that purchased a half dozen roofies. His stomach rolled, but he notched the page and continued. Then, the day before Matthew was abducted he found it:

 

10-2 / 9:15PM / White Tesla / Beach / 5 Bluebell + Angel Tears / $250

 

Ronan swung too quickly around a curve and Adam felt his whole body slide sideways. Even when the car was going straight again the feeling of slipping didn't leave. With numb fingers he flipped back to August 24th, the day Noah went missing. Near the top of the page he found: 

 

8-23 / 9:15PM / White Tesla / Beach / Angel Tears / $150

 

His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the air conditioning hissing from the vents, and the tires rumbling over the uneven pavement, and the air whipping past Ronan's cracked window. This was it. The connection he had been looking for, evidence to link Matthew's kidnapping with Noah's disappearance. A sickly sense of understanding curled in his gut as details slotted into place. This meant that Noah had most likely been drugged. It meant that Matthew had most probably been given Bluebell and then Angel Tears. It meant that they still didn't know the identity of the buyer because Whelk sure as hell did not drive a Tesla. 

 

"Adam? You find something?" 

 

Adam hadn't realized that the car had stopped. His gaze was caught on two neat, boxy words: White Tesla. 

 

When he spoke, his throat felt constricted, "Are you sure Noah's sister drives a Tesla?" 

 

 

* * *

 

"No."

 

"It—who would take a picture of that—I mean that's practically creating evidence isn't it?"

 

"No. Just— no." Ronan's hands were still clenched around the steering wheel. His voice was frighteningly emotionless.

 

The phone was in Adam's hand, open to the first picture on the camera roll: Noah curled in the back seat of a Tesla. Adam had assumed he was just sleeping. Why wouldn't he? But now when he studied the picture it seemed that Noah's head was tilted just a bit too much to be comfortable. His limbs were haphazard like he hadn't arranged them himself. Was he drugged in the picture? Where was he being taken? Whose car was it? 

 

"Whelk doesn't own a Tesla." Ronan said quietly from next to him. 

 

  
_Then why did Whelk have Noah's phone with this picture on it?_  The question hung between them.

"There has to be more information, right?" Adam could hear the hollowness in his own voice. He tapped the photo and was surprised when text appeared at the top of the screen: "Arcadia Forest" and below that "8/24 9:21 PM"

 

The picture had been taken the day Noah disappeared. Almost an hour after his last text to Whelk.

 

"What the fuck? Why—" Ronan's question trailed off into ominous silence. "That forest is huge how would we be able to find—"

 

"There has to be more information, like a geo signature, or something." He shoved the phone into Ronan's chest. 

 

"Why are you trying to give it to me?"

 

"You have a phone, you should know how to work it!"

 

"It took me a month to realize I could actually listen to voice mails."

 

Adam growled in frustration, "Ronan, just—"

 

Ronan cut him off with a hand around his wrist. "Matthew. Matthew can help. He's on his phone all the time."

 

They slammed the car doors behind them and jogged across the lawn. They were on the cusp of something big—Adam could feel it in the tightness in his lungs. 

 

"MATT!" Ronan shouted, bursting through the front door.

 

"Jesus, Ronan!" Declan chastised from the kitchen.

 

"In here!"

 

Ronan and Adam followed the sound of Matthew's voice into the living room, ignoring Declan's continued grumbling.

 

"Hey, Matt," Ronan panted as they approached Matthew's nest of blankets and comic books on the sofa. He still looked tired, but his eyes were full of soft affection as he looked up at his older brother. "Can you help me figure out something on my phone?"

 

"Are you finally downloading Snapchat?" Matthew asked, enthusiasm brightening his voice.

 

"No," Ronan said with a hint of strain, "but I might consider it if you can help me with a problem I'm having."

 

"Oh, sure, okay."

 

"I need help figuring out where a picture was taken." Ronan sat on the edge of the couch next to Matthew, careful not to disturb the Captain America comic open on Matthew's lap. Adam tried to hand Ronan Noah's phone, but Ronan gently pushed his hand back. "Can you show me on your phone?"

 

"Oh, um..." Matthew fished his phone out from between the couch cushions. He squinted at the screen, the tip of his tongue sticking between his lips as he tapped through his photo gallery, a look of deep concentration on his face. Ronan craned his neck to see what he was doing and Adam settled quietly on the couch next to Ronan, tentatively setting his hand on Ronan's knee. The room was quiet aside from Niall's trio of grandfather clocks ticking away in the corner.

 

Matthew looked up. "Um, actually, I don't know how to do that," he admitted, sounding for all the world like a dejected puppy. 

 

"Hey, hey, that's okay," Ronan hurried to reassure him as Matthew's face fell. "It might not even be possible."

 

Declan appeared behind the couch, a cup of coffee in one hand the other hand out stretched. "Let me see."

 

Matthew reached up to give Declan his phone but Declan waved it away. "No, I want to see what Ronan is working on."

 

"Fuck off, Declan. No one asked you."

 

Adam handed Declan the phone.

 

"Benedict Arnold!" 

 

Adam shrugged and patted Ronan's leg placatingly. He didn't mind if Declan knew where they would be searching, after all what could he do to stop them? "We need to know where this photo was taken. It says Arcadia Forest, but we need to know which part."

 

Declan's facade of stony control faltered, "Is this?"

 

"We think he might have been in trouble." 

 

Icy eyes sized Adam up. Declan's face was strikingly similar to Ronan's, but while Adam had relearned how to read Ronan over the past few days Declan was still a mystery.

 

"You need to get into Albums, from there you can sort by location and if you click on the location name," Declan said and showed Adam as he clicked 'Arcadia Bay, OR,' "the photos will show up on a map that you can zoom in and out of. It's accurate within a few blocks. It looks like this was taken in part of the forest that's about a quarter mile away from the highway right where it splits. See." He handed the phone back to Adam, the map still on the screen. "It's probably private property, but there's bound to be an access road or two in the area."

 

He ran a hand through his hair, betraying a hint of emotion. When he spoke he sounded uncertain. "You think that Noah could be camped out out there?"

 

"If by camped out you mean he was driven out there drugged in the back of a car." Ronan's eyes darted to Matthew and he softened his voice, "I mean, we think he was there at some point." 

 

"I don't want you trespassing. Especially not somewhere you think a crime was committed."

 

"Oh, well, then we definitely won't, right Adam? Don't worry about us," Ronan smiled as sweet as poison and grabbed Adam's hand, "if we're not around tomorrow we're definitely doing something you wholly approve of!"

 

"Ronan!"

 

"Fuck off Declan!" Ronan singsonged and pulled Adam up the stairs to his room.

 

They spent the rest of the evening draped across Ronan's bed. There was satellite images of the forest to search and crime reports involving white Teslas to Google. And when their eyes started to cross from squinting at Ronan's laptop, they put on an old CD of Niall's Gaelic ballads and laid on their backs a hair's breadth apart. And when Adam's palms started to itch he rolled over and pinned Ronan to the bed and kissed him until their brains went quiet. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thing come to a head as Adam and Ronan discover what happened to Matthew and Noah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. It's been awhile. Other fandoms, my original writing, moving, and holidays all got in the way of this chapter but it's FINALLY DONE! And what's more there's only one more chapter left! So if you're still with me, thank you so much for reading! Buckle your seat belts, this isn't going to be an easy one (if you played LiS you know what I mean...)

Professor Milo paced the front of the classroom, his SMART board pen tucked haphazardly behind his ear so that his hands could enthusiastically illustrate the effect of stream of consciousness in _As I Lay Dying_. Adam's eyes followed Milo's progress from the podium to the desk and back again, but his mind was preoccupied with reconstructing the photo of Noah in the backseat of that white Tesla.

 

Background: smooth leather seats and dark tinted windows. Subject: Noah Czerny, unconscious, hair ruffled and head angled uncomfortably—but pillowed on a balled up sweater like someone had attempted to make him comfortable, a dissonance that made the image provocative. Lighting: the car's dome light + iphone flash—washing out Noah's already light skin. But what was the photo's point-of-view? What was the photo saying about the helpless boy in the backseat?

 

"—we perhaps see this best with Vardaman and the toy train. But I want to turn to a passage about him drilling holes into his mother's coffin and his mother. The holes—"

 

Holes. There were still holes in their knowledge, gaps in their understanding. Bullet holes. Blood spreading, soaking Ronan's t-shirt, Kavinsky's pants, dripping down Adam's face. The emptiness in Ronan's eyes as he pulled the cross from his prison jumpsuit. Matthew's funeral program. Niall and Aurora gone—the only thing he couldn't seem to rewind.

 

Blackwell's nine tone recorded bell jarred Adam out of his thoughts.

 

"Alright, I'd like you all to think a little more about point-of-view and stream of consciousness, especially as we approach the last few chapters!" Milo shouted over the clamor of backpacks being zipped.

 

Adam left the classroom with his head down, and his mind elsewhere, trusting muscle memory to take him to his next class.

 

"Mr. Parrish."

 

Adam's head jerked up. He was in the photography classroom, in his usual uncomfortable plastic chair at the back of the classroom, and Professor Greenmantle was sitting on the edge of Adam's desk watching him with a perplexing knit to his aristocratic features. 

 

"Yes, Professor?"

 

They were alone, the sound of sneakers and laughter muffled by the closed classroom door. How early was he? He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had lost time; He didn't remember sitting down. 

 

"How are you holding up? I can't imagine the past week has been easy for you."

 

"Sir?" Adam's stomach constricted even as his voice came out polite and deferential. The sympathetic knowing in Greenmantle's eyes was making hair prickle on the back of Adam's neck—Greenmantle couldn't possibly know about his ability, could he?

 

"You're close with Matthew Lynch, right? That's how you talked him down?" Relief and understanding flooded through Adam. "It's never easy to see a friend go through a hard time. Especially not someone as sweet and innocent as Matthew Lynch." Adam swallowed, he didn't want to be having this conversation, least of all with the cold, collected Colin Greenmantle, but then he remembered the distress on Greenmantle's face when he barged into Principal Wells' office—maybe he wasn't as collected as Adam thought. At least he seemed to care about Matthew.

 

A hand rested on Adam's shoulder and Adam jumped. "How long have you known Matthew?"

 

"Since he was little. I'm friends with his older brother."

 

"Ronan Lynch?" Adam didn't think that Greenmantle had ever met his eye before—after all, why would a world renowned photographer deign to make eye-contact with students and psychopaths from backwater Oregon? But now Adam had the full impact of his gaze; it was piercing, clever, and surprisingly curious.

 

"You know Ronan? He was expelled before you started working here."

 

"I met him on campus once, when he was putting up fliers for that missing boy—what was his name? Neil?"

 

"Noah."

 

"Ah, yes."

 

The door to the classroom creaked open and Tad Carruthers' overloud guffaw spilled into the room accompanied by the trample of feet. Greenmantle's hand disappeared from Adam's shoulder and he stood as smoothly as if he had never been sitting at all.

 

"You want my advice, Mr. Parrish? All the things you're feeling now, put them into your photography. You won't regret it." Then he strode toward the front of the room, sparing a lazy head nod for the gaggle of students filing into the room.

 

It was advice from an unexpected corner, but as the lesson commenced Adam found himself able to focus. He broke down the cyclone of disordered thoughts in his head, organized the bits that would help him and Ronan with their search into one quadrant of his mind, and banished all the unhelpful images into another never to be looked at again. Then he gripped his stubby pencil and tuned in to Greenmantle's lecture on high contrast lighting.

 

Adam's feeling of control lasted precisely fifty-five minutes. Then he walked into his Latin classroom and was confronted with a sickeningly familiar figure hunched over the teacher's desk.

 

His mouth was making words before he could stop it, "What are you doing here?"

 

Whelk looked up, an expression of disdain twisting his cruel features, "My suspension was lifted."

 

"What?" the word was hollow with disbelief.

 

"The school could find no concrete reason to discipline me." The defeat that had shrouded Whelk the evening Adam ran into him at Two Whales was gone, replaced by emboldened disdain and a taunting sneer. "As soon as I agreed to anger management courses they welcomed me back with open arms. So much easier than hiring someone new midterm." Whelk stood, his blazer and faded button-down were even more rumpled than usual. His too-large eyes were bloodshot. "Did you really think they would fire me because some ungrateful scholarship beggar pointed a finger at me?"

 

Dismay seared Adam's throat like stomach acid. He wanted to rip something apart with his bare hands. They couldn't have just let Whelk back. He wasn't innocent. He was a danger to every student at Blackwell. What about Milo's email? What about Greenmantle's testimony?

 

This was all wrong.

 

"I'm not going to let a little whelp like you ruin me." How had Adam never noticed the deranged note to Whelk's hatred? The unhinged way his nostrils flared and his eyes bulged when he spoke?

 

The man who had harassed Noah, the man who had driven Matthew to the ledge was standing in front of him unpunished. This couldn't be allowed to happen. He had to fix this.

 

His feet knew what to do before his brain did, and he ran, bursting out of the Latin classroom as Whelk jeered about getting him suspended if he skipped class. For once that didn't matter. Adam sprinted out of the humanities building and looked wildly around. He needed Ronan. They needed to figure this out _now_. Tad emerged from the door next to him and Adam took his chance.

 

"Tad, can I borrow your phone?"

 

Tad stopped, startled, and looked at his watch. Passing period was almost over. Adam composed his face into what he hoped looked like a friendly smile. "I would consider it a personal favor." He watched as a hopeful smile broke across Tad's face.

 

"Sure thing, Adam." He dug his phone out of his pocket.

 

Adam had committed Ronan's number to memory the other day as they lay sprawled across his bed in a brief moment of peace. He hadn't expected to need it so soon. He dialed quickly and prayed Ronan would answer.

 

"Ronan Lynch's phone, Matthew speaking."

 

Adam's shoulders sagged in relief, "Hey, Matthew. Tell Ronan I need him to pick me up from school. Now."

 

* * *

 

Tires squealed as Ronan swung haphazardly into the student parking lot. Adam hardly waited for the car to slide to a stop before he yanked the door open and threw himself inside.

 

"Adam? What are you doing. It's not even lunch yet is it?"

 

Any other time Adam may have appreciated the fact that Ronan had finally accepted that Adam wasn't going to skip school, but that didn't matter right now. "Drive. We're doing this now. He's back."

 

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, what's happening?"

 

Adam's hands shook as he forced himself to take a deep breath. Outside the flags on Blackwell's flag pole whipped audibly as the wind picked up. "They took Whelk off suspension. He's back."

 

Ronan reached for the clasp of his seat belt and the door handle at the same time. Adam threw a hand out, catching Ronan in the chest and pushing him back against the seat. "What are you gong to do? Beat up a teacher? Get thrown in jail before we even have a chance to figure out what happened to Noah?"

 

Ronan punched the steering wheel and the horn echoed off Blackwell's austere brick. Adam didn't flinch—this aggression wasn't meant for him. Ronan was wild energy, but he wasn't unpredictable, he only needed a moment to point himself in the right direction.

 

Ronan scrubbed his hands over his close shorn hair and down over his face before settling them possessively on the steering wheel and the gear shift. "Let's get this bastard put away for life."

 

They peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Blackwell's administrators to peer disapprovingly out their windows and shake their heads at the recklessness of boys.

 

* * *

 

 As Ronan spun them through town and onto the highway, Adam unlocked Noah's phone and navigated to the map Declan had showed them.

 

"There's an access road up ahead," Ronan grunted.

 

"Too soon, we need to be almost on top of where the highway splits."

 

"But what if we have to take a road from further back to get there?"

 

"We'll double back."

 

Ronan sped faster. They were in the right lane but they were rocketing past the few cars they encountered. It felt like they were barreling toward something huge, a discovery (probably), an ending (hopefully). But anger and disgust could only propel them so far—as they lost asphalt under their tires and the forest unfolded endlessly along the highway, anger was replaced by restless determination and an edge of excitement that hummed like the BMW's engine, vibrating up their legs and settling in their bellies.

 

"Wait, that could be it!"

 

Ronan slammed on the breaks and the car groaned as he forced it to slow and muscled it onto the shoulder. "Where?"

 

"We passed it."

 

Not missing a beat, Ronan tugged the gear shift and reversed the car down the shoulder. Adam instinctively reached for the over-the-door handle as he peered out the window. "There you see? That gate looks new."

 

"The other one we passed didn't have a gate."

 

"Exactly."

 

They pulled up along side the dirt road that led off the shoulder. It was barred by a simple, steel corral gate, easy to jump but solid enough to suggest that trespassing was not encouraged. It wouldn't keep anyone out but anything more secure would have peeked the curiosity of passersby.

 

"Keep the engine running," Adam climbed out of the car to take a closer look. As he had thought, the two sides of the gate were held together by a loop of chain and a measly padlock. It took approximately fifteen seconds for him to find a suitable rock and two swings to break the lock. He tossed the rock out of the way and pushed the gates open.

 

The BMW rolled through and Adam put the newly lock-less gates back in place. Next time the person who had bothered to install the gate came around they'd know someone had broken in, but Adam couldn't reverse the damage without the BMW ending up back on the outside of the gate, and, with blood pounding elatedly in his ears at the feeling they were making real progress, he didn't really care.

 

When he climbed back into the car Ronan was smiling smugly and drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the low beat of the electronica whispering through his speakers.

 

"What?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"Why do you look so pleased?"

 

"I'm just marveling at how easy it was to turn you into a petty criminal."

 

Adam rolled his eyes and buckled his seat belt, "You didn't turn me into anything."

 

"What's this now? The third time I've talked you into breaking and entering? Are you saying you would have done that without me?"

 

"If you're going to take credit for it, I'll make sure you wind up with the fall out."

 

"It would be my pleasure."

 

They rolled down the dirt road at a pace that was uncharacteristically trepidatious for Ronan. Maybe he was afraid of ruining his shocks on the uneven road, or of passing the spot they were looking for, or maybe the stillness of the sprawling woods with it's red-trunked trees spaced just far enough that the air was suffused with golden sunlight was effecting Ronan the way it was effecting Adam. It was so peaceful, so full of quiet life, that it was hard to believe anything evil could take root. A feeling of calm, and an equally potent feeling of distrust of that very calmness, sprouted and twined together in Adam's chest.

 

Adam juggled two phones—a feat he'd never needed to perform before. He kept Noah's phone open to the map of where the photo had been taken and he ran Google Maps on Ronan's phone so that he could track their progress through the woods and compare their location to the other map. They seemed to be going the right direction, although it was hard to tell when neither map showed the road they were on.

 

"Hey, Parrish, check it out."

 

Up ahead there was something visible through the trees. The weathered wall of a dilapidated, old barn became visible as they pulled into a small clearing that the road passed through. The barn was tall, its peaked roof reaching nearly as tall as some of the surrounding trees. The walls were stripped of any paint they may have once borne and the wood slats were bleached ghostly pale. The loft doors were unaccounted for and a large, shadowy opening yawned part way up the wall.

 

"I think we should check it out," Adam said, double checking the phones to make sure they were in the right spot.

 

"I hate barns, man. That's some creepy serial killer shit." Ronan mused, not sounding at all apprehensive as he pulled the BMW into the dusty clearing in front of the barn.

 

"Yeah, a building with a clear utilitarian purpose could never be used for anything but crime."

 

Adam climbed out of the car and observed the clearing. It was the perfect place to commit a crime: far enough away from civilization that no one would hear a screaming victim and utterly unassuming to the chance passerby. No one thought twice about a rundown barn in a lumber forest in Oregon. He closed his eyes, listening. Above him he could hear the whisper of pine branches caught in a breeze that didn't reach the ground. Even if he strained he couldn't hear the highway they had just came from.

 

"Oh, c'mon, Parrish." Ronan's footsteps crunched to a stop behind him. "Don't tell me you're a ylophiliac."

 

Adam opened his eyes so he could lift a judging brow at Ronan, "Do I even want to know?"

 

"Do these woods give you wood?"

 

Adam shoved him. Ronan's resulting laugh echoed off the barn, startling a crow that had been roosting in the mouth of the loft.

 

"You know, just because a word has 'philia' in it doesn't mean it has to be sexual." Adam sighed as they plodded around the BMW toward the barn door.

 

"Someone's getting defensive."

 

"I'm not—" Ronan let out a guffaw and Adam shut his mouth before Ronan could twist his words further, opting instead to shove his shoulder against Ronan's again. "Hold up." He grabbed Ronan's wrist to stop him. There was a line of tire tracks that ended a few feet from the barn door. Actually, looking closer, Adam realized there were multiple sets of faded, partially overlapping tire tracks as if someone had repeatedly parked in the same spot recently enough for the evidence to remain. The dirt around the tracks was disturbed, but the only intact footprint Adam could spot was too sleek and tapered to belong to a farmer or a lumberjack's heavy work boot.

 

Ronan knelt by the tracks, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then straightened up. "Nice attempt to distract me, forest boy."

 

He strode toward the barn door, skirting around the tire tracks. Then, almost as if he wanted to one-up Adam's earlier performance, he took a rock to the padlock on the barn door, destroying it in one hit. "No need to rush, you can take another minute with your beloved trees if you want." He shoved the door and it slid open with a rusty creak.

 

"Asshole," Adam pushed past Ronan to get inside. When he looked back over his shoulder Ronan looked devilishly pleased.

 

The barn was huge on the inside, the ceiling at least two stories high. A loft spanned the east half of the building cutting it in half height-wise. The floor was scattered with hay that let off a faint mildew smell when stepped on. It was dusty but not dank since plenty of sunlight streamed through the open loft and some of the more snaggled slats. Rusted equipment lined the walls.

 

"I take it back," Ronan said, kicking up a tuft of straw, "I would totally live here."

 

Adam hummed neutrally, humoring Ronan as he went to examine an old tractor in the corner.

 

"Yeah, just clear out this space and lay some concrete. You could fit so much shit in here. Get it wired up, put in plumbing for the kitchen in that corner over there, and I'd make the loft a bedroom."

 

"Cozy." Adam had moved on to an old workbench cluttered with tools but devoid of helpful information.

 

"The tricky part would be insulation."

 

A warped chest in the corner contained some musty blankets, a mouse nest, and a chewed folder containing what seemed to be the original deed from the 1956. Adam didn't recognize the name of the landlord and it seemed pretty unlikely that the barn hadn't changed hands since then.

 

"I didn't know you were interested in home renovation."

 

Across the barn Ronan was experimentally swinging a rope he'd taken off a peg on the wall. "I'm not," he said and Adam could hear the defenses going up. Ronan didn't like people to know he liked things that weren't fast cars and petty crime. He dropped the rope onto the floor, coughing at the cloud of dust it picked up. "Everyone should know how to fix and improve the things they own or that's just stupid."

 

Adam hummed, "And the last time you needed an oil change you did it yourself?"

 

The silence from the other end of the barn answered Adam's question. He sighed, closing the lid of the chest. "I'm not finding anything. This stuff hasn't been touched in years." He dragged his fingers through a half inch of dust and immediately regretted it. He didn't want to rub it off on his Blackwell uniform.

 

"But the tire tracks."

 

"Maybe they never left the car."

 

"No, that doesn't feel right—"

 

"Ronan—"

 

"Why drive all the way out here? There's plenty of closer places to park in a car and not have anyone see."

 

Adam exhaled heavily and prodded at the matted straw with his toe. If someone had brought Matthew and Noah into the barn they hadn't touched anything, and the straw made leaving footprints practically impossible.

 

"We should check up there." Ronan jerked his chin toward the loft. "C'mon Parrish, I'll boost you."

 

There was a platform about two thirds as tall as the rest of the loft. Whatever ladder may have existed at one point was gone. Ronan studied the ledge just above his head and then braced himself, lacing his fingers in invitation. Maybe he was right, Adam relented, a bird's-eye view could be exactly what they needed. He put one foot in Ronan's hands and braced one hand on Ronan's shoulder. He could get his other hand clamped on the platform but it wasn't enough to pull himself up.

 

"Hold on, Parrish."

 

Ronan lifted him like he was nothing. Once Adam's chest was level he hauled himself up onto the platform. A wood sliver burrowed into his palm. Adam pushed onto his feet, breathlessly brushing himself off. He hadn't expected Ronan to be quite so strong. He'd seen his arms but—not the time, Parrish. He quickly scanned the musty platform around him. There was some scattered smaller pieces of equipment, and from what he could tell, the loft itself was barren aside from the odd broken board and a roosting owl.

 

"Earth to Parrish, you alive up there?"

 

"It doesn't look like there's anything up here."

 

"Well, there's gotta be fucking something."

 

Adam stood at the edge of the platform and peered at the spread of the barn below him. It would have been a good angle for a photograph: Ronan slightly off-center in the foreground, face turned upward, his harsh lines at odds with the trust in his eyes. The textured barn floor spanning out behind him, a stretched rectangle of light pouring in through the door breaking up the monotony. But there was still something missing, the center of the floor was just moldy straw.

 

The epiphany struck Adam while he was still distracted thinking about photography. "Check under the straw. There has to be a cellar."

 

Ronan Lynch didn't do anything halfway. He kicked up big mounds of straw, exposing dirt and kicking up a cloud of dust, until his boot collided with something that clanged. "It's a door, and another padlock. Where'd I put that rock?"

 

"Hold on."

 

There was a mostly intact looking pulley system that must have been used to lift hay bales into the loft. Sure Ronan could probably take care of the lock with a few well placed hits, but tearing the lock—and possibly the door—out of the ground seemed more exhilarating and Adam was sure Ronan would approve. It took him a minute to tie the pulley rope to a clunky old engine and drop the metal hook down to Ronan. "Hook this into the padlock and then stand back."

 

"I don't know what you're planning, but I like it already."

 

Adam tried to contain his smirk as Ronan grinned wolfishly at him and knelt to fulfill Adam's request.

 

With the hook in place, Adam planted his foot against the engine and with a hard shove pushed it over the side. The excess rope snapped tight, the engine crashed cacophonous to the floor, and there was a metallic screeching as the hook jerked upward, the broken padlock falling from its maw.

 

"Wooooohooo!" Ronan crowed, pumping a fist in the air toward Adam before scrambling to admire the damage. "Did you see that? Clean off."

 

Adam, tingling with adrenaline, climbed down from the platform to join Ronan in front of the now exposed and unlocked cellar door.

 

Ronan met his return with a fierce smile, the type that made the heat flare in Adam's chest and his hands itch to wrap around the nape of Ronan's neck and pull him in for a kiss.

 

"Time to find out what this bastard is hiding," Ronan declared as he pried the doors up by the now warped loop the padlock had been attached to and threw them open.

 

Adam had expected rotted wooden stairs and more dust, not concrete walls and metal steps. He had expected to step into a musty cellar, not a short corridor ending in a vault style door with a key pad and a handle mechanism like a ship's wheel.

 

"Well, this is—"

 

"Some fucking James Bond style shit?" Ronan finished for him, walking up to the door and kicking it experimentally. His boot made a cracking noise against the metal surface but it didn't so much as shake.

 

"Someone really doesn't want visitors." Adam mused, examining the key pad. There were three small lights along the top of the number pad. He pressed the button for '1' experimentally and the first light glowed green, so he tapped '2' and '3' and watched the other two lights light up in turn. A second after he hit '3' all three lights flashed red and went out. So it was a three digit code, not too hard. He examined the key pad, it was relatively new, but when he looked at it from the side the weak light from the barn above showed certain keys were slightly shinier: 2, 5, 7. They had been pressed more than the others. Adam quickly did the math in his head, even if one of the numbers was repeated, there were still only 27 possible combinations.

 

Next to him Ronan was attempting to tug the wheel one way then the other, testing for weakness. Adam started testing combinations.

 

2 - 5 - 7

 

2 - 7 - 5

 

That time the three little lights flashed three times and stayed red. He punched in another combination but the lights didn't change. There must be a maximum number of attempts before the system locked itself. Next to him Ronan was tracing his fingers around the door frame.

 

Adam lifted his right hand and quickly rewound. Once the lights were off and Ronan was tugging at the wheel again he dropped his hand.

 

5 - 2 -7

 

5 - 7 - 2

 

Ding, ding, ding. The lights flashed green and something in the door clicked.

 

"Right on, Parrish!" Ronan cheered. He wrapped his hands around two pegs and the wheel turned easily.

 

As the door swung inward, the motion triggered a band of fluorescents that illuminated the room before them in eerie gray scale. The floor was concrete and the walls were white tile. Metal shelving lined one wall and a utilitarian sink-counter combo another with a water heater nestled in the corner. Adam stepped into the strange half light, mentally cataloging the non-perishable food items lining the shelves.

 

"What the hell is this place?"

 

"It looks like a natural disaster bunker." Adam chewed his lip, was it paranoia or premonition that drove someone to build a shiny new self-sustaining bunker in the woods? And why would Noah have been brought here? Assuming he had been at all.

 

"An end of the world bunker more like." Ronan poked at a line of cracker boxes until they fell like dominoes.

 

Adam approached the chrome counter. The sink was clean and the surrounding counter didn't even have superficial wear. Adam's eyes were drawn to the only item on the surface: an invoice from "Safety Bob's Bunkers and more." The total at the bottom was astounding. It was more money than Adam could reasonably make in ten years. He looked at the client's name and was surprised to see it matched the name from the deed he'd found in the barn. Either Stanley McFlynn had a disaster-wary grandson of the same name (which seemed unlikely, Adam had never heard of any McFlynns that were still in Arcadia Bay) or, if this place really was Whelk's (which seemed even more unlikely considering the astounding total paired with an expensive car like a Tesla), he had hidden behind the stolen name.

 

"What the—Adam, you have to see this."

 

There was a curtain of slitted plastic, like the type grocery stores sometimes had to keep the cold in. Adam followed Ronan's voice through it and stepped into, of all unlikely things, a photo studio. Spot lights and tripods faced a clean white drop cloth. Expensive looking metal equipment boxes gleamed in the fluorescents. There was a huge photo printer in the corner, the type Blackwell wouldn't trust its students with, and a desk with a computer and cabinets housing what Adam could only assume was more gear. First a ratty barn, then a creepy storm shelter, now this hyper modern photo studio? It was like walking through a dream. It made no sense and each abrupt change of scenery made Adam feel more wrong-footed.

 

"Who the fuck builds a photo studio underground in the middle of nowhere?"

 

Adam shook his head. Framed artwork on the wall caught his eye, "That's the wrong question."

 

"Then what?"

 

Nausea settled in Adam's gut as his gaze traced over the carefully curated artwork: an illustration of a girl with intestines and bugs spilling from her throat, her eyes bulging as her hands tried to stem the flow; a nude male figure bound with rope and barbed wire to a tree in a deserted forest; a painting of a boy, blood streaking down his face, mouth contorted in a silent scream. Each piece was artfully done, but together it felt like a curated collection of torture porn. "What is someone doing that requires their studio to be hidden underground in the middle of nowhere?" 

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Bile burned Adam's throat, he didn't want to entertain the possibilities coming to his mind. "Let's just look for clues. We need to know who this studio belongs to."

 

Adam moved toward the equipment first, he couldn't help himself. There were lights and diffusers and stabilizers he could only dream of one day owning. He wanted to touch everything, to turn things on and test out the cameras on the desk, but that wasn't why they were here. There was a pair of blue stilettos sitting on top of one of the carrying cases, but he wasn't sure if they belonged to the photographer or one of his subjects. He approached a metal rolling chart, and with a sensation like the bottom falling out of his stomach, he recognized a small glass vile sitting on top. _Angel Tears._  This vile was empty. This was definitely their person.

 

"The fucking computer's locked. Don't you know how to hot-wire it or some shit?"

 

"Hot-wiring is for cars not computers."

 

"How are your hacking skills?"

 

"Have you tried 'password'." The owner of this studio had already used enough other safety precautions that Adam didn't think it would work, but it was worth a shot.

 

"Dude, I really don't think whoever set up this place is as idiotic as Wells."

 

Adam tore himself away from the fancy equipment and turned to a cabinet behind the desk. He opened the door to find rows of blood red binders each neatly labeled with a handwritten name down the spine: Ethan, Daniel, Marcus, etc. Adam cocked his head as his eyes traveled down the list of male names.

 

"Wait, do you think Wells could be in on this? We haven't considered his as a suspect," Ronan mused, banging ungently on the keyboard.

 

Adam's gaze stopped on a binder with a familiar name in neat block letters: Noah. Finally something that looked like evidence. He eased the binder out of its spot as his gaze continued to the final two binders: Viktor and Matthew.

 

Adam took all three of the binders for good measure and turned to an expanse of empty desk. The binders slid against each other when he dropped them, the one on top of the pile slipped sideways and he had to scramble to catch it before it fell from the table. He flipped the binder open and froze. The binder was full of clear photo sleeves and the first one displayed a photo of Matthew on on his side, eyes half lidded and unfocused, arms pulled uncomfortably behind his back. Cold swept over Adam as he reflexively turned the page. Matthew propped against a box, wrists duct-taped in front of him this time, head lolling onto his chest. He flipped the page again. Matthew on his back, clearly unconscious, shot from above. Each photo was in black and white, each taken on the white backdrop five feet from where Adam was standing. Horror tasted like bile on Adam's tongue. He wanted to drop the binder, to set it on fire and scrub clean every inch of his skin that had come into contact with it, but he couldn't tear his eyes away.

 

The artistry in the photos was indisputable. The angles, the framing, the lighting all lovingly displayed the tortured lines of Matthew's curled body. Yet, oddly, the photos didn't objectify him, they didn't rob him of his subjecthood. On the contrary, they were carefully framed to focus on Matthew's sunken eyes and the glazed pain in his expression—and that was so much worse, because Adam got the impression that the photographer knew the horror Matthew was experiencing and reveled in it. The photos were an ode to the nonconsentual, a celebration of the subject's ongoing trauma. 

 

How could someone do that to Matthew? To anyone?

 

"Hey, you find something?"

 

Adam's fingers clenched around a page, putting a wrinkle in the print. He couldn't let Ronan see this. He snapped the binder shut. It almost slipped through his hands as he pulled it tight against his chest.

 

"Jesus Adam, you looked like you saw a fucking ghost." Ronan was an arms length away, his posture so upright and casually insolent. Adam could already see the way his shoulders would bow under the weight of the knowledge and explicit visuals contained in the binder. The binder's metal rings groaned as his grip tightened. A hint of concern knit Ronan's brow as his eyes traced over Adam, taking in the disquiet Adam knew he hadn't been able to keep from his face. Finally his gaze stopped on the binder. "What did you find?"

 

Adam had to wet his lips before he could get his voice to work, "I know what Whelk's doing to the boys he kidnaps."

 

Ronan's eyebrows flew up. "How did—"

 

"He's photographing them."

 

Ronan nodded, bringing his wrist to his mouth to chew the end of one of the leather bands he always wore—perhaps it wasn't that big of a revelation judging by their current surroundings. Ronan jerked chin his toward the binder clutched to Adam's chest. "Is that?"

 

"Pictures of Matthew."

 

Ronan reached out a hand, palm-up, for the binder and Adam jerked back. Ronan's brow furrowed and the hand with the leather bands dropped away from his mouth. "Adam?"

 

"I don't think you should see them."

 

Suddenly Ronan looked as deadly as a summer thunderstorm, electricity crackling along the breadth of his knotted shoulders, shadows gathering in his eyes. Yet, when he moved toward Adam and gently pried the binder from his grasp it was without violence. "He's my fucking brother."

 

"Ronan—"

 

But Ronan had already opened the binder.

 

"Matthew?" the gasp was small, broken, grief filled—despite his determination Ronan hadn't been ready to be confronted with evidence of Matthew's abuse. He flipped the page once, then again, and again, his breathing becoming more ragged as he went. "That fucking bastard." The binder hit the wall and landed face down on the floor, a few pages sticking out at the wrong angle. Ronan whirled around, tears in his eyes and rage painted across his face. Adam thought he was going to barge out of the bunker, but then he doubled over over the small wastebasket and heaved out the contents of his stomach.

 

Adam's chest ached, all he had wanted was to protect Ronan from harm and he'd walked him straight into it. His body felt ungainly and heavy as he closed the space between them and stood by Ronan's shoulder, unsure if he should touch him. After a minute of dry heaving Ronan straightened up and rubbed his wrist vigorously over his mouth. "What's in the others?" Adam had never heard is voice so weak.

 

"Ronan, you don't have to."

 

"I need to see."

 

Adam nodded. They moved back to where the two other binders waited and Adam flipped open the one on top. "Prokopenko?" He said when he recognized the familiar dye job and sunken eyes. He hadn't realized that Prokopenko's first name was Viktor. Had he gone to the police too? Or had he been too drugged to realize what had happened to him? Adam closed the binder and reached for Noah's.

 

In the first picture Noah was draped over an uncomfortable looking metal chair, the sleeves of his sweater—the one Ronan had found in Whelk's house—were rolled up to display the thick duct-tape cuff that bound his wrists together. Noah's eyes were closed and his face was slack. Adam had never seen a picture of Noah where he wasn't smiling; it made him look older and gaunt. 

 

Over Adam's shoulder Ronan made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

 

In the next picture Noah's eyes were open. Ronan's shoes squeaked and Adam looked over his shoulder to see him pacing away, hands clenching on his skull, trying to pull at hair that wasn't there.

 

After the first few photos, the chair was removed and Noah was stripped of his sweater, leaving him in a thin white t-shirt. Half-conscious he was laid out on the white drop. The lighting was configured so that his shadow stretched ominously behind him, the darkest element in the otherwise pale world of the photo. Adam could read the confusion in Noah's eyes and the discomfort in the press of his mouth as he tried to fight through the suppressants in his system. 

 

Adam didn't need to see any more—but then he turned the page one more time and stopped short. The next photo was a close up, just Noah's face, eyes clenched shut, mouth pressed tight in pain or fear. The next photo was the same, too close, poorly framed, almost blurry like the lens hadn't been correctly focused for the shot. The hair on the back of Adam's arms prickled. This was different. The rest of the photography was artistically conceived and meticulously executed, but this was sloppy, too close, personal. There hadn't been any photos like this in Matthew's binder—something about Noah was different.

 

"That fucking monster." Adam jerked to attention, across the room Ronan had picked up another red binder from the table by the printer. "He's making more." He flapped the empty binder at Adam then pointed to the spine and the name 'Henry' clearly scripted across the white label. Adam's stomach dropped, _not Henry too._ Ronan reached for another empty binder, looked at the spine, and let out a stream of expletives. He dropped Henry's binder to the ground and gripped the new binder in both hands, ripping the front clean off and flinging it to the ground before doing the same to the back cover. He flung the spine last, it skidded across the smooth concrete toward Adam, the metal rings squeaking across the floor. It stopped inches from Adam's foot, and he nudged it with his toe until the label faced upward. His own name stared up at him. 

 

He felt like he was watching the scene from a distance. The voice that came out of his mouth didn't even seem to be his as he said, "Something's weird about Noah's photos."

 

"You mean the fact that a psycho drugged him and kidnapped him for his fucked up photography?"

 

"No," Adam flipped the page again, "his pictures are different. All the others were well composed, but his are too close, and blurry, and—they're just off. It's like it's personal with Noah." Whelk's drunken text played in Adam's mind, this had to be him, but the details didn't add up. Adam flipped the page again and his breath caught. There was blood on Noah's face, a trickle running down from his temple. There hadn't been blood on any of the other boys. On the next page there were more, his nose was broken and blood painted his upper lip and dribbled down his chin. This was wrong, this wasn't what he had done to Matthew. The photo was taken from far enough back that Adam could tell Noah's hands were still bound. His eyes were slitted open and they looked plaintively at the camera. Adam didn't want to see any more, but his hands kept moving. Noah's eyes were closed now, his head dropped back at an unnatural angle and blood covering his entire cheek which looked wrong, like the bones in it had been crushed. A skateboard intruded into the side of the frame.

 

Adam realized, with detached calm, that his hands were shaking. He had allowed himself not to freak out about Matthew's pictures because he knew that right now Matthew was safe at home—even with the psychological trauma he'd suffered he was okay. Same with Prokopenko. But this was different—-

 

"Adam?" Ronan's steps were coming closer again, as Adam flipped the last page.

 

Noah wrist and ankles were no longer bound. He was laid out at awkward angles on patchy grass, there was some miscellaneous junk in the shadows behind him and someone kneeling next to him. It was dark, night, but there was enough light for Adam to recognize Barrington Whelk's profile. There was a dark patch on the ground next to them—it was difficult to tell in the low lighting, but it looked like a hole.

 

"Oh my god," Ronan yanked the binder out of Adam's hands and Adam was glad to have the image of Noah's battered face out of his view, "Noah—Jesus Christ, this is the junkyard. I know where this is."

 

Ronan threw the binder onto the desk and grabbed Adam by the wrist. "We have to go." Adam tripped over his own feet as Ronan pulled him toward the plastic curtain that separated the photography studio from the rest of the bunker.

 

"He'll know we were here."

 

"Fuck if I care. Let him. Let the bastard know that we're coming for him."

 

* * *

 

Ronan took the bumpy dirt road at fifty miles an hour, nearly careening into pines when the road curved abruptly. Adam hadn't realized how long they had spent in the bunker; it was in late afternoon half-light that they swerved through the forest and onto the highway.

 

"I'm going to fucking kill Whelk," Ronan seethed, his knuckles were white and he pushed forward against the steering wheel like it would make the the car go faster.

 

All Adam could do was stare blankly through the windshield not registering the blurred shapes they flew past or caring how far above the speed limit they were pushing when they hit the highway. Behind his protective disassociation his synapses were firing, trying to make sense of their situation. Something didn't add up. Whelk was obsessed with Noah and they had clearly found the "dark room" from his crazed scribbles, but Whelk was dirt poor. How had he afforded that bunker and all that equipment? Could he could be a secret billionaire?  _Akom's Razor,_ Adam reminded himself, _the simplest solution is the true one._ So maybe it wasn't Whelk at all. Some other rich, Tesla driving, violent lunatic was terrorizing Arcadia Bay.

 

The photography though... it was perfectly composed, evocative even, the angles, the lighting, the editing. It wasn't the work of a madman. So a psychopath maybe. Someone who didn't care how many lives they destroyed as long as they got their tortured, beautiful art. Adam swallowed and pressed the pads of his fingers to his closed eyes wishing he could erases the images of Matthew and Noah and Prokopenko from his retinas. Not because he couldn't bare to witness their torture, but because he could still look at them and see the artistic merit. How deep did these cracks go in his humanity? How thin was the line between someone who could look at someone's torture objectively and someone who committed that torture?

 

He didn't realize they'd reached the junkyard until the BMW skidded to a stop, the back wheels drifting on the loose gravel. Ronan didn't even take the key out of the ignition when he burst out of the car. Adam swallowed his pointless existential crisis and ran after him. He would be here for Ronan; this was Ronan's tragedy.

 

Ronan's feet pounded on the dry earth as he dodged urgently through the unsteady piles of junk. Adam followed until Ronan dropped suddenly to his knees next to a rusted fridge. There was a conspicuous lack of grass in front of Ronan. Adam wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't looking for it, most of the junkyard was dirt with the occasional weed or creeping patch of St. Augustine, but to have a space so large completely clear... Adam swallowed. Ronan clawed at the dirt, scooping it up by the handful and throwing it to the side. He was muttering as he went and Adam had to lean in to make out his words. "C'mon, Noah. You aren't fucking dead. You can't fucking die on me, Noah Czerny."

 

Adam dropped to his knees next to Ronan and dug his hands into the soil.

 

They only had to go three inches before they hit plastic—a black trash bag.

 

"No," the word slipped from Ronan's mouth. He pulled back, looking at the small depression they'd made in horror.

 

Adam curled his fingers into the plastic and ripped it open.

 

The smell hit them in a nauseating wave, they recoiled as it attacked their mouths and noses with the unhealthy sent of decay. It made Adam's eyes water and he had to blink against the sudden moisture as he pressed his wrist to his nose and leaned forward to look. Molted, decaying skin, a hint of brow bone under a tuft of pale blond hair. 

 

"Noah," it was a whisper from Ronan. "Noah!" then it was a wail. He scrambled back away from the few inches of ripped plastic and the flesh below it. He pressed his forehead to his knees his whole body trembling. "Not— no—why him? What fucking world? What fucking world lets this happen?"

 

The same world that let Niall die and Aurora languish in a coma. The same world that let Adam grow up with a father that would rather hit him than look at him. Adam had no delusions about the world they lived in, he couldn't muster the anguished disbelief Ronan felt, but grief still stabbed painfully through his heart. Noah was dead.

 

Adam slid next to Ronan and carefully wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Ronan collapsed into him, sobbing into Adam's sweater, and Adam tilted his forehead against the soft short hair of Ronan's crown. He couldn't stop the too familiar flood of images, but this time there was the stomach clenching addition of ripped plastic and rotting golden-blond hair. He tightened his grip around Ronan as tears slid down his cheeks.

 

Adam wasn't sure how long they stayed tangled together in the junkyard—grief did funny things to the passage of time—but eventually the sun crept below the horizon and the blue sky faded into a listless gray dusk. Adam shivered as the temperature dropped. His tears had abated, and now his skin, streaked in drying salt, felt too tight. 

 

Eventually, Ronan's anger resurfaced and he pushed to his feet and began pacing. He kicked the brittle weather-eaten side of an old Pontiac and rust showered onto his boots. He picked up a discarded hubcap and smashed in the side mirror and pushed over the old fridge with a bone-rattling crash. He growled, the destruction not enough to bring him back to equilibrium, and stalked back to where Adam was trying to brush the dirt off of his uniform pants.

 

"C'mon."

 

"Where are we going?"

 

"To find Whelk."

 

"We should go to the police. We have a body, that's the type of evidence they can't ignore."

 

They had reached the car and Ronan was already throwing himself back into the driver's seat violently twisting the key that was still in the ignition. "Fuck the Arcadia Bay Police. What the fuck have they ever done? It's not like they ever caught the person that killed my dad."

 

"Ronan, this is different." Adam stood with one hand on the door and one foot in the car, not letting Ronan pull away. "We have a literal bunker of evidence."

 

"Noah wanted us to find him. We have to get real justice."

 

"Ronan, think about what you're saying, you don't want to—to murderer someone."

 

He scoffed, "It's hardly murder at this point."

 

He didn't really mean it. Adam knew he couldn't mean it. Ronan's blood ran hot not cold. Adam had seen the terror on his face when he'd stabbed Kavinsky—and that was when he knew Adam was a second away from rewinding. Ronan was going to find Whelk and realize that he wasn't the kind of person who could kill someone, and Adam had to be there for him to rewind and pick up the pieces when he did.

 

"You said you didn't plan on leaving me again." Ronan had both hands on the wheel now and he was staring straight ahead, strangely calm and for one horrible moment Adam wondered if he really was capable of murder, "But I'll understand if you don't want to be part of this."

 

Adam took one more minute to suck in the cold, pine air of the junkyard before he dropped into the seat and closed himself into the car. "I'm not leaving."

 

Ronan made a rumbling noise in his throat and floored the gas.

 

* * *

 

Whelk's car wasn't in his driveway at his house or in the parking lot at Two Whales. After half an hour of driving through Arcadia Bay, they spotted the scuffed up Corolla in the staff parking lot outside Blackwell. They pulled into the crowded student parking lot as the sun disappeared below the horizon. Boys in hoodies and casual button-downs lined the sidewalk up to the athletic complex. Laughter and the distant sound of bass trickled through Adam's partially cracked window. 

 

Ronan reached across Adam, yanked open the glove compartment, and closed his fingers around the grip of Kavinsky's gun. Adam shuddered. He hated guns in general, and this one in particular had already done enough damage. He could still remember the weight of it in his hand and the resolve he had felt as he pulled the trigger, but he remained coldly silent as Ronan shoved the gun in the waistband of his pants and climbed out of the car. Then he slipped Noah's cell phone into the back pocket of his uniform pants and followed suit. 

 

"We'll check his classroom first."

 

Adam matched Ronan's pace up the sidewalk. They passed a pair of boys swilling some sort of school approved punch in paper cups—from the smell of them they'd added their own something stronger to the mix—but they weren't paying attention to their cups, they were staring up at the sky.

 

"You're seeing this right, bro?"

 

"Yeah, I'm seeing it."

 

"End of the world am I right, bro?"

 

"Fucking looks like it."

 

Adam spared a look up at what they were drunkenly gaping at and stopped in his tracks. Two identical, brightly lit orbs hung next to each other in the sky, two moons.

 

He reach out and caught Ronan's elbow before he could move out of his reach.

 

"Ronan, look."

 

"You're not going to distract me Parrish."

 

"There're two moons."

 

"Yeah, yeah, we can discuss the end of the world once Whelk is taken care of." He yanked his arm out of Adam's grasp and Adam had no choice but to jog after him as he cut across the grass.

 

"ADAM! Hey, PARRISH!" Another hand was closing on his shoulder. Adam jerked around to see a beaming and quite obviously drunk Tad Carruthers an inch from his face. From behind him Ronan scoffed. "Parrish! Cheng told me you were coming but I thought it was too good to be true!"

 

"What do you want, Tad?" Adam glanced back at Ronan, "I'm busy." Ronan was staring Tad down, crossing his arms across his chest, and, if Adam wasn't mistaken, flexing. The way his t-shirt stretched under his leather jacket was imposing. Tad's expression darkened, and he lifted his hand off Adam and took a step back.

 

"Whoa, hey, I just wanted a picture. You know, since we're Polaroid buddies and all. And since they're saying this is the end of the world I thought it might be a nice memento. You can't begrudge me a picture." This last was to Ronan, as if Adam's say didn't matter. The small amount of fondness Tad had earned by letting Adam borrow his phone was quickly draining away.

 

"I don't have time for this," Ronan said and turned to stride back across the grass.

 

"C'mon, Adam," Tad was already lifting his Polaroid Camera above them and leaning into Adam's space. He smelled like shitty beer. "Just say cheese." The flash went off and Adam was already pulling away.

 

"Hey, I'll scan you a copy!" Tad called after him, but all of Adam's attention was on Ronan in front of him, taking the steps up to the Humanities Building two at a time.

 

He caught up as Ronan shoved open the front door. "Is this supposed to be unlocked at 8:00 PM on a Thursday?"

 

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Parrish."

 

The hallways were dark and quiet, but a lamp was on in Whelk's classroom. Ronan pulled the gun out of his waistband as they approached. Adam waited on edge for the click of the safety coming off—it never came. They approached the doorway carefully, but Whelk's desk, visible from the doorway, was deserted, as was the rest of the room. Ronan swore. He shoved the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, stalked to Whelk's desk, and swiped his arm angrily across the surface, sending papers flying and a mug tumbling to the ground where it shattered. Adam looked on, not bothering didn't bother to stop him. They'd left evidence of their presence in the bunker and the graveyard; there was no longer any point in hiding the fact that they were investigating Whelk. 

 

"We saw his fucking car in the lot."

 

"He must be chaperoning the dance." Adam's guts twisted at the thought of Whelk around so many unsuspecting victims.

 

Ronan stepped into the middle of the destruction, his shoulders moving rapidly with his breaths, he clenched his fists and unclenched them again. "I'd hoped we'd get him alone."

 

As they stood in silence, looking down at the mess Ronan had made of Whelk's things and chewing on the thought of what finding Whelk alone would result in, there was the unmistakable squeak of a nice pair of shoes in the hallway. Adam tensed for flight, eyes already seeking out a hiding place. They shouldn't be in this building right now. If they were caught going through a teacher's things it would lead to discipline and questions.

 

"Who's there?" After a month of lectures Adam would recognize Greenmantle's smooth tenor anywhere. He quickly weighed his options. There was nowhere to hide where they wouldn't be easily found, and no way to exit the room that wasn't the hallway Greenmantle was walking down. He could rewind, but how far back would he have to go? He wasn't going to be able to stop Ronan from coming into this room and at that point it would probably already be too late to get away. But maybe they didn't have to escape—this was Greenmantle who had made it seem like an inconvenience to report a gun on campus. If he didn't see Ronan's gun, if he thought they were breaking the rules just for the hell of it, there was a chance he wouldn't bother to report them. That was a chance Adam was willing to take. 

 

Acting quickly, he grabbed Ronan by the front of the shirt and backed himself onto Whelk's now empty desk, pulling Ronan between his legs.

 

"Kiss me."

 

"What the fuck are you doing?"

 

"Covering for you."

 

Adam wrapped a hand around Ronan's neck and pulled him into a kiss. An illicit classroom rendezvous was a good cover. They were just two impulsive rule breaking teenagers with no ulterior motives.

 

Adam didn't expected Ronan to respond—he fully anticipated a few awkward seconds of their mouths pressed together before Greenmantle came in to tell them off—but the minute their lips collided it was like an electric current went through Ronan. His whole body shuddered and his hands fisted in the back of Adam's shirt. His lips parted and he pressed into Adam's mouth like he suddenly needed the air out of Adam's lungs to breath. He rocked forward unsteadily and Adam had to put a hand back on the desk to brace himself as Ronan pushed desperately closer, pressing himself between Adam's thighs. When he shuttered out a moan against Adam's lips it was almost a sob. Then there was a throat being cleared a few feet away and they flew apart, genuinely rumpled and breathing hard. 

 

"I hate to interrupt, boys," Greenmantle said with an arched eyebrow and an unimpressed expression, "but I'm afraid you got lost on your way to Mr. Parrish's dorm."

 

"Professor!" Adam did his best to look chagrined.

 

Greenmantle met his act with a casual glance down at his watch. "I have to be in the gym in twenty minutes to announce the winner of the Everyday Heroes Contest. If you run along, I won't tell Barrington how his desk got—disorganized." 

 

"Oh, Professor," Adam laid it on thick, "I— thank you— it won't happen again." He disentangled himself from Ronan and carefully got off the desk. He spared a glance for Ronan, his face was flushed and he was breathing hard—Adam wasn't sure if it was from the surprising desperation of the kiss or the adrenaline of hunting Whelk, but it fit the scene Adam was setting. Adam kept his body in front of Ronan's, keeping the jut of the haphazardly hidden gun out of Greenmantle's line of sight. At least, he thought wryly, if Greenmantle did catch sight of the slight bulge in Ronan's jeans Adam had crafted a probable explanation. "Still such a shame you didn't enter a photo Parrish, you have to start building your portfolio."

 

Actual shame clenched in Adam's gut, "Yes, sir."

 

Greenmantle's gaze shifted to Ronan and his eyebrow quirked, "I recognize that face, you're Ronan Lynch, correct?" An uncomfortable expression crossed Greenmantle's face and he fiddled with the knot of his tie. "I'm so sorry about what happened to Matthew. I blame myself for not seeing the signs. I hope he's doing better?" He looked at Ronan with an uncharacteristically contrite expression that made his coolly handsome features look older. He was clearly expecting an answer.

 

"Yeah, no thanks to this place." Ronan sneered. Adam felt the urge to elbow him to remind him to be polite. Being rude right now wasn't going to help them stay out of trouble. Besides, Greenmantle wasn't the problem. 

 

"I supposes that's true. Now," he clapped his hands, banishing his contrition, "get back to the party so I don't have to deal with writing you up." 

 

"Yes, Professor. Thank you."

 

They scurried out of the room past Greenmantle. Adam could feel his eyes on them all the way down the corridor. 

 

* * *

 

As they jogged back across the lawn, Ronan moved slower, like their kiss or the run in with Greenmantle had taken some of his fire.

 

"Look, I'll get you in, but you have to stick with me okay?" Adam urged. "I'll help you find Whelk, but I have to do something first."

 

"What could be—"

 

"I want to warn Henry, in case Whelk gets to him before we get to Whelk."

 

Ronan wanted to fight him, but he knew even Ronan wouldn't deny that they needed to prevent anyone else from suffering Noah's fate.

 

As they neared the gym and the dull throb of music and teenage voices rose up to greet them Adam reached for Ronan's hand so that he'd notice if Ronan tried to leave his side, but as Ronan squeezed his fingers he wondered if he would even try.

 

The gymnasium was dim compared to the streetlight bathed walkway outside. Inside, the dull throb of the music turned into a thought-obliterating pound that filled Adam's good ear and vibrated though the soles of his shoes. The foyer was decked with twisting streamers in what he knew must be Blackwell burgundy, but it was too dark to tell. He could see the mob of writhing student bodies and flickering lights in the pool area beyond, but their way was barred by a pair of underclassmen student reps standing century at the double doors. 

 

"What's your name?" one of the boys asked. He looked about thirteen—Adam wondered if he'd looked that small as a freshman. 

 

"I don't fucking have time for this," Ronan snarled and the boy's eyes widened—he hardly reached Ronan's elbow. Ronan started forward as if to push his way into the gymnasium, but Adam tightened his grip and Ronan stopped when their arms were extended between them, unwilling to break contact. It was tempting to let Ronan lead, to blow into the party, consequences be damned, but this was still Adam's school, and when this was all over and Whelk was in custody he still needed a clean record without disciplinary action to keep his scholarship in tact. 

 

"Adam Parrish."  

 

There was a flicker of recognition in the boy's eyes and he quickly flipped to the page of clipboard with the letters RSVP printed across the top. "Adam Parrish plus one," the boy said, highlighting the appropriate line, his eyes flickering anxiously back to Ronan on the "plus one."

 

Adam silently thanked Henry Cheng—he knew damn well that he hadn't put his own name on any RSVP list and anything that saved him from having to overtax his ability was appreciated. He thanked the student rep and pulled Ronan into the gymnasium by the hand.

 

The party organizers had foregone the florescent overhead lights in favor of light stands fitted with red and purple gels so the room was suffused with a bloody glow that was made nearly impenetrable by a haze of machine produced fog. It reminded Adam dizzyingly of the red light that drowned his vision every time he rewound. His head swam with vertigo, but he pushed it down and tugged Ronan around the edge of the pool. 

 

They had to dodge around clusters of grinding and step-touching Blackwell students and their assorted dates. Students splashed in the pool, some in their bathing suits, others still in full party dress. Adam must have missed the memo about the pool. _I would have brought his trunks,_ he thought wryly as he watched a student attempt to straddle an inflatable shark. 

 

"Fuck this place," Ronan growled next to him, he was baring his teeth at anyone who had the audacity to look their direction. "Let's find Whelk and get the fuck out of here."

 

"Henry first."

 

"Fine." 

 

Adam already knew where he would find Henry. Fabric walls had been erected in a corner and marked with a glitter drenched poster bearing the words 'VIP Lounge'. Adam wasn't sure why a school event needed a VIP section, but it seemed very Blackwell, and particular Henry-esque. 

 

His name was on a list at this door too and he and Ronan slipped inside without incident. 

 

The "lounge" felt surprisingly like a poorly-lit business mixer. Nicely dressed seniors in blazers and ties stood in groups and perched on sofas that had been dragged in from god-knows-where. They sipped punch from clear plastic glasses and nibbled cheese and crackers off small square napkins. There were maybe twenty-five people in total and Adam recognized most of them as Henry's friends and a few faces from the student body elections earlier that year. Ronan scoffed as he looked around at the well-behaved assemblage. This was not a Kavinsky party, it was a Henry Cheng party.  

 

"It might be better if I do this alone," Adam eyed Henry where he was speaking animatedly to Sick Steve, Koh, and two girls that must be their dates. He turned to Ronan and met his eyes with a stern gaze, "Stay here. We're going to face Whelk together." 

 

Ronan's jaw clenched. His eyes were molten steel in the ruby tinted light, but he didn't protest.

 

Henry's gaze zeroed in on Adam as Adam wound through the surrounding gaggle of fellow VIPs to get to him. "Parrish! Parishioner! Pariah! How are you feeling the party? Pretty swanky, am I right?"

 

Adam was instantly glad he had left Ronan at the door, he could only imagine the acidic retorts he would have for Henry's vocal brand of over-exuberance. 

 

"Can I talk to you privately? It's important."

 

"Of course, P-man! Anything you need! If you'll excuse me lads and ladies." Henry clapped Koh on the shoulder and nodded with undue formality at Steve and both of the girls. Adam was almost surprised that he hadn't shook hands all around.

 

Adam lead him a few feet away into a corner where the heavy velvet curtains met and their voices would be absorbed by the fabric. 

 

"It's a spee-lendid party don't you think?" Henry grinned at him, practically vibrating along with the over-loud music. "People will talk about this one. And it's hardly even started! Colin should be announcing the Everyday Hero's Contest winner soon, then things will really get going." Henry winked as if they were sharing some sort of inside joke. They weren't. "The anticipation is literally killing me."

 

Adam barely restrained himself from sighing in annoyance, "Henry, you need—"

 

" _And_ ," Henry was still talking, "you have some 'splainin' to do. Why did you never tell me that dangerously brooding was your type?" 

 

Adam followed Henry's gaze to Ronan was still at the entrance to the lounge, eyes icy as he stared down a girl that had apparently tried to talk to him. 

 

Adam felt his brow furrow. "Why would I? We're not friends."

 

That was clearly not the answer Henry was looking for. Henry's face spasmed as if Adam had just stomped on his foot. "Ah, my mistake."

 

"Listen, Henry." The night wasn't getting any younger, and Arcadia Bay wasn't getting any safer, he needed to warn Henry quickly so he could get back to locating Whelk. "You're in danger." 

 

Henry blinked, once, twice, "Excuse me?"

 

Adam took a deep breath then laid out the situation as succinctly as possible: "Professor Whelk has been kidnapping students. He's been drugging them and taking them to this bunker in the woods where he photographs them and who knows what else. And he's targeting you next." 

 

While he spoke he watched Henry's face purse in confusion. "I don't even know what to say," He said a soon as Adam had stopped speaking. "No, actually, I do: Adam, that sounds insane. I T.A. for Barrington; he may be moody but he is not the serial abductor type. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know how to work a camera! A bunker in the woods? You've been watching too many horror movies." 

 

Adam's teeth ground together. Maybe he hadn't given enough explicit detail to backup his claims, but he didn't have an hour to brief Henry on the specifics. "I know it sounds... far-fetched but you have to trust me on this."

 

"Trust you? Adam, do you hear what this sounds like? I can't tell if you're a conspiracy theorist or if you're pulling my leg!"

 

"I wouldn't lie to you about this."

 

"How do I know that? It's not like we're _friends._ " 

 

Adam was taken aback by the note of bitterness in Henry's voice. Was Henry upset about that? Was he really not going to heed Adam's warning because he had said they weren't friends? 

 

"I don't know what your angle is here, Adam, but I don't appreciate fear mongering, especially at a party I worked hard to plan." All Adam could do was gape at him. Of course, Henry didn't want to believe him. This was exactly why he hadn't told anyone other than Declan what was going on. No one wanted to believe there were bad people out there hurting innocent people, just like no one had wanted to believe the malnourished looking boy in too baggy t-shirts was actually being abused when it was so much easier to believe he was just naturally reclusive and flighty.

 

Adam didn't have time for this. He couldn't waste valuable minutes regaining Henry's trust, so he lifted his hand and sent time hurtling in reverse. 

 

The eerie red in his vision was barely distinguishable in the dim red of the room. When he dropped his hand and his vision was still steeped in red, panic momentarily thrilled through him, but his fear was quickly dispelled when he noticed Henry was moving normally again, smiling, and prattling about Adam's "type." 

 

"—dangerous and brooding—" 

 

"Henry, I need to talk to you," he said quickly.  

 

Henry looked startled, but not displeased by the interruption, "So you said."

 

"I—" Adam was going to jump right into explaining the danger Henry was in, but he instinctively rerouted, a better approach occurring to him mid-sentence, "really appreciate that you invited me tonight. It's good to have a friend at Blackwell." 

 

Henry's face broke into a wide smile. "You're a good man, Adam Parrish. You should bless us with your presence more often."

 

"Look, I—" Adam was thrown off by the genuine warmth in Henry's voice, but he forced himself to gather his thoughts and continue, "wish I was just here to thank you, but I have to tell you something serious—something bad is happening at Blackwell."

 

Henry's face fell and his upright posture slouched into something more defeated. "You're right. I can't stop thinking about what happened to Matthew. Everyone here's to blame a little I think. I mean, I gossiped about that fight too..." 

 

Adam cut him off. Henry's guilt wasn't misplaced, but it wasn't currently helpful either. "This isn't about Matthew, or it is, but it's about you too." 

 

"Me?"

 

"Someone hurt Matthew, drugged him, and—" he decided to withhold the detail about the bunker and the photography remembering Henry's disbelief, "hurt him. That person who hurt Matthew is going to hurt more people." 

 

Henry was looking at Adam wide-eyed but he hadn't dismissed him yet. "Do you know who?" his voice was shocked and urgent.

 

Adam nodded, "Professor Whelk."

 

"Barrington?!" This time Henry didn't laugh.

 

"I know he doesn't seem the type," Adam said, not because it was true but because he hoped it would help Henry believe him. "But just stay away from him, and keep your friends away from him, you know _Henry Broadway_ and them," he emphasized the other Henry's name hoping that warning one Henry would protect both of them.

 

"O-okay, but why aren't you going to the police with this?"

 

"I will, as soon as I have enough evidence to convince them I'm not crazy."

 

"Holy shit, man. Holy shit, this is serious isn't it?" 

 

Adam wasn't expecting the relief that washed over him when he saw the credulity in Henry's eyes.

 

"Just be careful, okay?" 

 

Henry nodded, for once speechless. Adam reached out, unsure if he should clap him on the shoulder or pat him on the back, because Henry looked younger and more lost than Adam had ever seen him, but in the end he didn't, after all they weren't really friends. Adam turned and headed for the door; Ronan was waiting for him. 

 

A group of students had started a dance circle in the middle of the VIP lounge, Adam skirted around it and turned his thoughts to what he had to do next: find Whelk, restrain him, prevent Ronan from killing him, call the cops.

 

Succinct and bullet-pointed it seemed like a manageable to-do list. Yeah, right.

 

Adam reached the entrance of the VIP lounge and stopped short. Ronan wasn't there. He wheeled around, scanning the interior of the lounge, but Ronan wasn't by the couches or lurking in a dark corner. Adam's stomach clenched. He had only been taking to Henry for a few minutes. Ronan wouldn't be dumb enough to confront Whelk on his own would he?

 

He would, and Adam knew it.

 

Fear constricted Adam's lungs. How could he have been so stupid? He knew Ronan wasn't in a state to make rational decisions. He clenched his shaking fists, Ronan hadn't waited for him, he was searching for Whelk on his own, and he had Kavinsky's gun...

 

Adam swung out of the VIP lounge—maybe Ronan had gotten fed up with Henry Cheng's crew of stuffed shirts and was waiting for Adam outside. He wasn't. Adam scanned the sea of sweaty faces for Ronan, refusing to believe that Ronan had actually left on his own. When had the gymnasium gotten so crowded? The pool deck was a heaving mass of dancing teenagers, their jubilant expressions at odds with the danger Adam knew prowled among them.  

 

He pushed into the crowd, his shoulders slamming heedlessly into anyone in his way. If he could get to the end of the pool where the DJ platform was he would have a better view of the crowd that pressed along the edges of the pool, hopefully he'd catch a glimpse of Ronan's shaved head or leather jacket. He was directly in front of the speakers when the repetitive ear-bleeding beat of the music faded into nothing and the DJ's voice boomed through gymnasium. "Hey Blackwell, are y'all having a good time tonight?" A cheer erupted from every side of Adam. He didn't bother to join in. "Alright, alright! So I'm being told we have a very special announcement tonight, something about a contest? Well, I'll hand over the mic."

 

More scattered applause as the crowd behind Adam surged, shuffling the other onlookers forward as students poured out of the VIP lounge.

 

Colin Greenmantle sauntered onto the stage and accepted the offered microphone. "Good evening, Blackwell," he was handsome and utterly out of place in his tailored gray suit. "I hope you're all enjoying yourselves." A cheer went up all around him—Greenmantle was popular even among the students that didn't take photography. Everyone loved having a celebrity on campus.

 

"I don't want to get in the way of the party," Greenmantle chuckled although his smile said he would love to bask in the spotlight with a captive audience all night long. "I'm just here to announce the winner of the Everyday Heroes Contest. Before I do I would like to thank everyone who entered a photograph, and everyone who thought about entering a photograph." Greenmantle looked down at the crowd of students in front of the stage. His gaze stopped on Adam and his smile tightened, something dark crossing his face. Adam just stared back. He knew he had let Greenmantle and himself down by not submitting to a photo to the Everyday Heroes Contest, but it had been difficult to wrap his mind around his photography with everything else going on. Once he found Ronan, once they turned Whelk over to the police, he would just have to work twice as hard.

 

"And now, without further ado." Greenmantle broke eye contact with Adam to slide an envelope out of the inner pocket of his jacket. His elegant fingers extracted a slip of paper, his Rolex glinted in the party lights. "The Winner of the Everyday Heroes Contest is...surprise, surprise, Henry Cheng!" 

 

The gym exploded in applause. The handful of people in the pool slapped the surface of the water whooped.

 

The Henry Cheng that mounted the stage was not the shocked and frightened boy that Adam had spoken to a minute ago; now he was straight-backed and grinning, shaking Professor Greenmantle's hand with a salacious wink. For the first time it occurred to Adam that maybe this was the version of Henry that was a facade. Maybe he and Henry weren't as different as Adam thought; they were both willing to do almost anything to succeed, their methods were just different.

 

Henry said a few words that were mostly just enthusiastic gibberish then handed the mic back to the DJ and hooked Greenmantle's arm as they dismounted the stage together. Adam raised a disbelieving eyebrow, Henry was being incredibly brash for a school function.

 

Adam shook himself. He still needed to find Ronan, and they needed to find Whelk. A boy was dead and more might follow if they didn't act quickly.

 

He checked every inch of the gymnasium, the foyer, the locker rooms, and the lawn outside. After ten minutes his pulse was racing, after thirty minutes he felt on the verge of something like a panic attack, his throat tightening and his breaths coming in short bursts as he jogged toward the BMW on the insubstantial hope that Ronan was waiting behind the wheel for him. 

 

What if Ronan was hurt? Or drugged? He had seen what Whelk was capable of and if he didn't find Ronan soon he might not be able to rewind far enough to save him from whatever mess he was in. 

 

Ronan wasn't inside the BMW. Adam sagged against the passenger side door, winded. The images were coming back: Ronan bleeding out on the cold tile, the gun in his own hand as he pointed it at Kavinsky—

 

"Adam?" It felt like all the bones in his body crumbled when he heard Ronan's voice. He sucked in a stuttering breath and glared up at the boy making his way across the parking lot to him.

 

"Where the hell were you?" his words came out sharp-edged and angry. 

 

Ronan paused a foot away, Adam could see his shoulders heaving with exertion and anger. Ronan crossed his arms, his posture defensive, his expression glowering, but there was a furtive searching look in his eyes. Adam recognized that Ronan's defensiveness was a mask to hide his uncertainty, but he couldn't reign in his anger, not after the panic Ronan had just put him through. 

 

"He's not here," Ronan said darkly.

 

"You're sure?" Adam spat.

 

"I checked every room in the Humanities Building and jogged around every other building on campus, if he was here I would have found him."

 

"So what the hell do we do now?" 

 

There was a low vibrating noise and Ronan looked down at his pocket, startled. "It's probably Matthew," he grumbled and pulled the device out of his pocket. When he looked at the screen he paused. Then he swiped the screen urgently. In the thin light of the screen his face was an unhealthy blue. 

 

"Holy shit," his voice broke and Adam could see as his hands began to tremble. "No. No! That fucking—-"

 

Adam pulled the phone from Ronan's hand and read the message open on the screen.

 

_I know what you found. Don't bother telling anyone, there won't be any evidence left by the end of the night._

It was sent from Noah's phone. Adam instinctively felt his pocket even though he knew the phone wouldn't be there. When had he lost it? 

 

"We need to go to the junkyard," Ronan rasped, "He can't take Noah, not again. He can't fucking do this." 

Adam nodded numbly, unable to find words. They threw themselves into the BMW. Loose asphalt flew from under their tires as they sped away from Blackwell. 

 

* * *

 

"I'm coming, Noah. I'm going to kill him. He won't fucking get away with this," Ronan growled as he vaulted over fallen boards and grotesquely twisted scrap metal. Kavinsky's gun glinted dangerously in his hand. Adam stayed a half step behind him, scanning the junkyard for Whelk. 

 

There was no sign of the beat up Corolla, no sound other than their footfalls and their ragged breath. The junkyard felt like a cemetery: skeletal remains of cars standing century like eroding headstones, crass graffiti epitaphs scrawled across their sides. It chilled Adam to think that Noah had already been in his shallow grave when Ronan had first brought him there. Adam could see his breath puffing in front of him. His lungs ached and his eyes stung, but he didn't know if it was the cold or the thought of Noah lifeless and decaying in this place—Noah murdered when everyone thought he'd taken an impulsive joyride out of town—Noah's body being carelessly disposed of again by the man who had taken his life.

 

Adam was braced to find an empty grave or Whelk, shovel in hand, but when they reached the patch of bare dirt where Noah was buried, it was the same as they'd left it. Adam swung the light of Ronan's phone flashlight toward the hole they had dug earlier; it caught on black plastic and a tuft of dirty blond hair. "He's still here," he breathed, the anxious pressure in his lungs abating just enough that he could take in a tight breath of icy night air. 

 

Ronan fell to his knees, a choked sob wrestling its way out of his mouth. The gun dropped to the dirt.

 

What was it they were supposed to do now? Call the police? Get Noah exhumed before Whelk could have a chance to follow through on his promise to destroy the evidence? The adrenaline of trying to reach Noah before Whelk was running rampant through Adam's body; he had to get his hands to stop shaking, get his voice to work.

 

He took a step back. He had to stay grounded in logic and action.

 

He took another step back. The phone in his hand still illuminated Ronan's crumpled form and the small depression they'd dug earlier. 

 

Adam forced his gaze down to Ronan's phone. _911..911..._ His hands shook too much to get three simple numbers out. He was so focused on getting his thumbs to stop shaking long enough to unlocked the screen that it took him a second longer than it should have to notice the crunch of gravel behind him. Then there was a hand yanking his head sideways and the prick of a needle sinking into his exposed neck. 

 

A gurgle escaped Adam's throat, surprise and the ingrained instinct to be quite suppressing his urge to scream. The phone tumbled from his hand and landed face down, the beam of the flashlight shining weakly upward. The bright bulb doubled then quadrupled in Adam's vision, turning into four pillars of light. The hand released his hair and Adam's knees stopped existing—or they existed, but only when they slammed painfully into the ground as he fell forward then sideways.

 

What was happening to him? His limbs felt impossibly heavy, there was a brick pressing on his brain. He blinked but everything was blurred. He could just make out Ronan scrambling for the gun and jolting to his feet. 

 

"Ronan—" he thought he said it out loud it but couldn't be sure.

 

What was going on? He couldn't turn his head to see the person behind him. He couldn't raise his hand to feel what had been done to his neck. Every instinct was screaming at him to rewind, his life and Ronan's safety depended on it. He tried to lift his hand, but it was made of lead. He strained, focusing every ounce of his energy and willpower on his hand. His fingers twitched, but his hand remained limp in the dirt. He gave up on muscle movement, instead fighting through the haze in his mind, reaching for the familiar feeling of time spiraling backward. Nothing. His eyelids sagged.

 

A whisper in his conscious mind told him that he needed to keep trying, but a peaceful dullness was suffocating his thoughts.

 

"What the fuck?" Ronan bellowed, sounding like he was shouting through cotton. The gun shook as he pointed it above Adam's head. 

 

There was a sound like the tearing of the universe.

 

Through half-lidded eyes, Adam watched as Ronan lurched, a red coin—no, a smudge of lipstick—no, a spot of dark red paint—blooming in the middle of his forehead. And then Ronan fell. He didn't make any attempt to catch himself or soften the impact, he just fell straight back, hitting the ground with a crunch. Adam stared, his brain failing to understand why Ronan wasn't getting up, why he'd just let the gun slip through his fingers.

The whisper was still telling Adam he needed to rewind but he couldn't get his mind to—get his mind to—

 

The few functional muscles keeping Adam's head raised gave up and the side of his face fell into the dirt. He blinked slowly because it was the only movement the fog would allow.

 

Two figures—no one, doubling and reforming in his vision—stepped into the weak light of the cell phone. Adam was hallucinating. He knew that gray suit, and that chestnut coiffure, and that cold gaze—but he couldn't think of a rational reason why Colin Greenmantle would be standing over him.

 

A cold chuckle broke the peace of the junkyard. 

 

And Adam's vision went black. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a newly minted TRC tumblr [here](http://www.chainsawsdaddy.tumblr.com). Stop by sometime :)


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